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government,  the  S  &* 


^^^^•M 

V 


LOYE  AFTER  MARRIAGE; 


AND 


OTHER  STORIES  OF  THE  HEART. 


BY 


MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ. 

AUTHOR  OP  "  LINDA  ;  OR,  THE  YOUNG  PILOT  OF  THE  BELLE  CREOLE,"  "  THE  BANISHED  SON," 

"  COURTSHIP  AND    MARRIAGE  ;  OR,  THB  JOTS  AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE," 

"  THE  PLANTER'S  NORTHERN  BRIDE  ;  OR,  SCENES  IN  MRS.  HENTZ'S  CHILDHOOD," 

"  EOLINE  ;    OR,    MAGNOLIA  VALE  ;   OR,   THE    HEIRESS    OF    GLENMORE," 

"  ERNEST    LINWOOD  J     OR,    THE     INNER    LIF^    OF     THB    AUTHOR," 

"HELEN   AND   ARTHUR;    OR,   MISS   THUSA'S   SPINNING-WHEEL," 

"  &Ej(A  ;    OR,   THE    SNOW  BIRD."     "  THE    LOST  DAUGHTER," 

"^MARCUS  WARLAND;     OR,    THE    LONO   MOSS  SPRING," 

"ROBERT  GRAHAM;"  A  SEQUEL  TO  "LINDA,"  ETC. 


THIS  volume  contains  some  of  the  most  charming  stories  ever  written  by  Mrs. 
Caroline  Lee  Hentz,  among  which  will  be  found  :  "  Love  After  Marriage."  "  The 
Victim  of  Excitement."  "The  Blind  Girl's  Story."  "The  Parlour  Serpent." 
"  The  Shaker  Girl."  "  A  Rainy  Evening."  "  Three  Scenes  in  the  Life  of  a  Belle." 
"The  Fatal  Cosmetic."  "The  Abyssinian  Neophyte."  "The  Village  Anthem." 
"The  Brown  Serpent."  "  My  Grandmother's  Bracelet,"  and  "The  Mysterious 
Keticule." 


PHILADELPHIA: 
T.    B.    PETERSON    &    BROTHERS; 

306    CHESTNUT     STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 
T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United    States,  in  and  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


MRS.   CAROLINE   LEE    HENTZ'S   WORKS. 

Each  Work  is  complete  in  one  large  duodecimo  volume. 

LINDA;    OR,    THE    YOUNG    PILOT    OF   THE   BELLE 
CREOLE. 

ROBERT  GRAHAM.    A  SEQUEL  TO  "LINDA." 
RENA;  OR,  THE  SNOWBIRD.   A  TALE  OF  REAL  LIFE. 

EOLINE;    OR,   MAGNOLIA   VALE;  OR,  THE  HEIRESS 
OF  GLENMORE. 

MARCUS  WARLAND;  OR,  THE  LONG  MOSS  SPRING. 

ERNEST  LINWOOD;    OR,  THE  INNER  LIFE   OF  THE 
AUTHOR. 

THE    PLANTER'S  NORTHERN  BRIDE;   OR,  SCENES 
IN  MRS.  HENTZ'S  CHILDHOOD. 

HELEN  AND    ARTHUR;    OR,    MISS    THUSA'S  SPIN 
NING-WHEEL. 

COURTSHIP   AND  MARRIAGE;  OR,    THE  JOYS  AND 
SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE. 

LOVE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 
THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 
THE  BANISHED  SON. 

Price  $1.75  each  in  Morocco  Cloth ;  or  $1.50  in  Paper  Cover. 


Above  books  are  for  sale  by  all  Booksellers.     Copies  of  any  or 
all  of  the  above  books  will  be  sent  to  any  one,  to  anyi  place,  post 
age  pre-paid,  on  receipt  of  their  price  by  the  Publishers, 
T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BEOTHERS, 

306  CHESTNUT  STREET,  PHILADELPHIA,  PA. 


CONTENTS. 


LOVE  AFTER  MARRIAGE,  .  ...     Page  17 

THE  VICTIM  OF  EXCITEMENT, 40 

THE  BLIND  GIRL'S  STORY,        ; 63 

THE  PARLOUR  SERPENT, 81 

THE  SHAKER  GIRL,            104 

A  RAINY  EVENING, 127 

THREE  SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A  BELLE,           .        .  135 

THE  FATAL  COSMETIC 151 

THE  ABYSSINIAN  NEOPHYTE, 175 

THE  VILLAGE  ANTHEM, 197 

THE  BOSOM  SERPENT, 210 

MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  BRACELET,         ....  234 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  RETICULE, 247 


93EC55 


LOYE    AFTER   MAEEIAGE. 


&.  STRANGER  was  ushered  into  the  parlour,  where  two  young 
laaies  were  seated,  one  bonneted  and  shawled,  evidently  a 
morning  visiter,  the  other  in  a  fashionable  undress,  as  evidently 
a  daughter  or  inmate  of  the  mansion.  The  latter  rose  with  a 
slight  inclination  of  the  head,  and  requested  the  gentleman  to 
take  a  chair.  "  Was  Mr.  Temple  at  home  1"  "  No  !  but  he 
was  expected  in  directly."  The  young  ladies  exchanged  mirth 
ful  glances,  as  the  stranger  drew  nearer,  and  certainly  his  ex 
traordinary  figure  might  justify  a  passing  sensation  of  mirth, 
if  politeness  and  good  feeling  had  restrained  its  expression. 
His  extreme  spareness  and  the  livid  hue  of  his  complexion 
indicated  recent  illness,  and  as  he  was  apparently  young,  the 
almost  total  baldness  of  his  head  was  probably  owing  to  the 
same  cause.  His  lofty  forehead  was  above  the  green  shade 
that  covered  his  eyes  in  unshadowed  majesty,  unrelieved  by  a 
single  lock  of  hair,  and  the  lower  part  of  his  face  assumed  a 
still  more  cadaverous  hue,  from  the  reflection  of  the  green 
colour  above.  There  was  something  inexpressibly  forlorn  and 
piteous  in  his  whole  appearance,  notwithstanding  an  air  of 
gentlemanly  dignity  pervaded  his  melancholy  person.  He 
drew  forth  his  pocket-book,  and  taking  out  a  folded  paper, 
was  about  to  present  it  to  Miss  Temple,  who,  drawing  back 
with  a  suppressed  laugh,  said — "  A  petition,  sir,  I  suppose  ?" 
— then  added  in  a  low  whisper  to  her  companion- — "  the  poor 
fellow  is  perhaps  getting  up  a  subscription  for  a  wig."  The 
whisper  was  very  low,  but  the  stranger's  shaded  though  pene 
trating  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  face,  and  the  motion  of  her 
lips  assisted  him  in  a  knowledge  of  their  sound :  he  replaced 

(IT) 


18  LOVE  AFTER   MARRIAGE. 

the  paper  in  his  pocket-book — "  I  am  no  petitioner  for  your 
bounty,  madam,"  said  he,  in  a  voice,  whose  sweetness  fell 
like  a  reproach  on  her  ear,  "  nor  have  I  any  claims  on  your 
compassion,  save  being  a  stranger  and  an  invalid.  I  am  the 
bearer  of  a  letter  to  your  father,  from  a  friend  of  his  youth, 
who,  even  on  his  death-bed,  remembered  him  with  gratitude 
and  affection ;  will  you  have  the  goodness  to  present  to  him 
my  name  and  direction  ?" 

Then  laying  his  card  upon  the  table,  he  made  a  low  bow 
and  retreated,  before  Miss  Temple  had  time  to  apologize,  if 
indeed  any  apology  could  be  offered  for  her  levity  and  rude 
ness.  She  approached  the  table  and  took  up  the  card — 
"  Gracious  Heavens  !"  she  exclaimed — "  it  cannot  be  possi 
ble  ? —  Sydney  Allison  —  that  bald,  yellow,  horrid-loooking 
creature — Sydney  Allison !  they  described  him  as  the  per 
fection  of  manly  beauty — I  never  will  believe  it — he  is  an 
impostor-1— the  wretch !" 

The  young  lady  who  was  with  her,  beheld  with  astonish 
ment,  the  passion  that  lighted  up  Miss  Temple's  face,  and 
her  looks  besought  an  explanation.  <(  Have  you  not  heard," 
said  Miss  Temple,  "since  you  came  to  this  city,  that  I  was 
betrothed;  that  I  had  been  so  from  a  child,  to  a  young  gentle 
man  residing  in  Cuba,  whose  uncle  was  the  bosom  friend  of 
my  father  ?  You  must  have  heard  it,  for  my  father  has 
always  taken  pains  to  circulate  the  report,  so  that  no  one 
might  presume  upon  my  favour.  And  this  is  the  delectable 
bridegroom !  the  one  who  has  been  represented  as  clothed  in 
every  grace  calculated  to  fascinate  a  female  heart — and  I, 
fool  that  I  was,  I  believed  it,  and  looked  forward  with  rapture 
to  the  hour  of  our  first  meeting."  Here  she  paused,  and 
throwing  herself  back  in  her  chair,  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears. 

Mary  Manning,  her  more  rational  companion,  endeavoured 
to  soothe  the  excited  feelings  of  her  friend,  and  suggested  to 
her,  that  whatever  disappointment  she  might  feel  with  regard 
to  his  personal  appearance,  his  character  might  be  such  as  to 
awaken  a  very  ardent  attachment.  "  Indeed,"  added  Mary, 
"  I  thought  there  was  something  quite  interesting  in  his 
address,  and  his  voice  was  remarkably  persuasive  in  its  tones. 
He  has  evidently  been  very  ill,  and  his  bad  looks  are  owing 
to  this  circumstance.  He  will  become  handsomer  by  and  by. 
Besides,  my  dear  Augusta,  wnat  is  mere  beauty  in  a  man  ? 
It  is  the  prerogative  oi'  a  woman,  and  you  are  so  highly  gifted 


LOVE   AFTER   MARRIAGE.  19 

in  that  respect  yourself,  you  should  be  willing  that  your  has- 
band  should  excel  in  those  qualities  which  men  generally  arro 
gate  to  themselves." 

"Husband!"  repeated  Augusta;  "I  would  as  soon  take  a 
death's-head  for  my  husband.  I  care  nothing  about  mere 
beauty,  provided  there  is  intelligence  and  spirit.  But  with 
euch  a  bald,  livid-looking  wretch  at  my  side,  such  a  living 
memento  of  mortality,  I  should  sink  into  my  grave  in  a  fort 
night.  I  never  will  marry  him,  unless  I  am  dragged  to  tfle 
altar."  Here  Mr  Temple  entered  the  room,  and  interrupted 
her  rash  speech.  Miss  Manning  too  retired,  feeling  that  her 
presence  might  be  an  intrusion.  He  looked  astonished  at 
the  agitation  of  his  daughter,  who  handed  him  the  card,  and 
turning  away  leaned  against  the  mantel-piece,  the  image  of 
woe. 

"  Sydney  Allison  arrived  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Temple;  "where 
is  he  ?  when  was  he  here  ?  and  why  is  he  gone  ? — why — what 
is  the  matter  with  you,  Augusta  ?  The  first  wish  of  my  heart 
seems  accomplished,  and  I  find  you  weeping.  Tell  me  the 
meaning  of  all  this  ?" 

"  Oh  !  father,"  sobbed  Augusta,  covering  her  face  with  her 
handkerchief,  "  he  is  so  ugly,  and  you  told  me  he  was  so  very 
handsome." 

Mr.  Temple  could  not  forbear  laughing  at  the  piteous  tone 
in  which  Augusta  uttered  this  melancholy  truth,  though  he 
immediately  resumed,  in  an  accent  of  displeasure,  "  I  am 
ashamed  of  your  folly — I  have  always  given  you  credit  for 
being  a  girl  of  sense,  but  you  talk  like  a  little  fool; — ugly ! 
if  a  man  is  not  ugly  enough  to  frighten  his  horse,  he  is  hand 
some  enough.  Besides,  it  is  nothing  but  a  whim ;  I  saw  him 
when  a  child,  and  he  was  an  uncommonly  beautiful  boy.  I 
hope  you  did  not  behave  in  this  manner  before  him — why  did 
you  suffer  him  to  go  away  ?" 

"  Why,  I  did  not  know  him,"  said  Augusta,  in  considerable 
trepidation,  for  she  feared  her  father's  anger;  "and  he  looked 
so  thin  and  woe-begone,  I  thought  he  was  some  foreigner  ask 
ing  charity,  and  when  he  took  out  a  paper  I  thought  it  a  peti 
tion,  and  said  something  about  one — so  he  was  angry,  I  believe, 
and  went  away,  saying  he  had  letters  for  you,  from  a  friend, 
who  was  dead." 

"  And  is  he  dead  ! — the  good  old  man  ! — the  best,  the 
earliest  friend  I  ever  had  in  the  world — dead  and  gone !'' 
Mr.  Temple  leaned  his  face  over  on  his  hands,  and  sat  in 


20  LOVE   AFTER   MARRIAGE. 

silence  several  moments,  as  if  struggling  with  powerful  emo 
tions  After  a  while,  Mr.  Temple  lifted  his  hands,  and  fixed 
his  darkened  eyes  upon  his  daughter.  He  took  her  hand 
with  affection  and  solemnity.  "  Augusta,  you  are  the  child 
of  affluence  as  well  as  of  indulgence;  you  are  my  only  child, 
and  all  the  wealth,  which  now  surrounds  you  with  luxury, 
vill  be  at  your  disposal  after  my  death." 

"  Oh  !  father,  do  not  speak  of  such  a  thing." 

"  Do  not  interrupt  me.  Mr.  Allison,  the  uncle  of  this 
young  man,  was  my  benefactor  and  friend,  when  all  the  world 
looked  dark  upon  me.  He  extricated  me  from  difficulties 
which  it  is  unnecessary  to  explain — gave  me  the  means  of 
making  an  ample  fortune,  and  ask^ed  no  recompense,  but  a 
knowledge  of  my  success.  It  was  through  his  influence  I  was 
united  to  your  now  angel  mother — yes!  I  owe  everything  to 
him — wealth,  reputation,  and  a  brief,  but  rare  portion  of 
domestic  bliss.  This  dear,  benevolent,  romantic  old  man,  had 
one  nephew,  the  orphan  child  of  his  adoption,  whom  he  most 
tenderly  loved.  When  commercial  affairs  carried  me  to  Cuba, 
about  ten  years  ago,  Sydney  was  a  charming  boy," — here 
Augusta  groaned — "  a  charming  boy ;  and  when  I  spoke  with 
a  father's  pride  of  my  own  little  girl  whom  I  had  left  behind, 
my  friend  gladdened  at  the  thought,  that  the  union  which 
had  bound  our  hearts  together  would  be  perpetuated  in  our 
children  j  we  pledged  our  solemn  promise  to  each  other,  that 
this  union  should  take  place  at  a  fitting  age  j  you  have  long 
been  aware  of  this  betrothal,  and  I  have  seen  with  great 
pleasure,  that  you  seemed  to  enter  into  my  views,  and  to  look 
forward  with  hope  and  animation  to  the  fulfilment  of  this  con 
tract.  The  engagement  is  now  doubly  binding,  since  death 
has  set  his  awful  seal  upon  it.  It  must  be  fulfilled.  Do  not, 
by  your  unprecedented  folly,  make  me  unhappy  at  a  moment 
like  this." 

"  Forgive  me,  my  dear  father,  but  indeed  when  you  see 
him,  you  will  not  wonder  at  the  shock  I  have  received.    After  i 
all  you  had  said  of  him,  after  reading  his  uncle's  letters  so  , 
full  of  glowing  descriptions,  after  dwelling  so  long  on  the 
graceful  image  my  fancy  drew,  to  find  such  a  dreadful  con-  ' 
trast." 

"  Dreadful  contrast !  why  surely  he  cannot  be  transformed 
into  such  a  monster." 

"  You  have  not  seen  him  yet,"  said  she  mournfully. 

"  No !  you  remind  me  of  my  negligence.    Ai'ter  the  strange 


LOVE   AFTER   MARRIAGE.  21 

lecpption  you  have  given  him,  it  is  doubly  urgent  that  I  should 
hasten  to  him.  Have  a  care,  Augusta,  you  have  always  found 
me  a  very  indulgent  father,  but  in  this  instance  I  shall  en 
force  implicit  obedience.  I  have  only  one  fear,  that  you  have 
already  so  disgusted  him  with  your  levity,  that  he  may  re 
fuse,  himself,  the  honour  of  the  alliance." 

"  He  refuse  me  !"  murmured  Augusta,  in  a  low  voice,  a3 
she  glanced  at  herself  in  a  mirror  that  shone  above  the  mantel 
piece.  As  the  nature  of  her  reflections  may  be  well  imagined, 
it  may  be  interesting  to  follow  the  young  man,  whose  figure 
had  made  so  unfortunate  an  impression  on  his  intended  bride, 
and  learn  something  of  the  feelings  that  are  passing  through 
his  mind. 

Sydney  Allison  returned  to  his  lonely  apartment  at  the 
hotel  with  a  chilled  and  aching  heart.  The  bright  day-dream, 
whose  beauty  had  cheered  and  gilded  him,  even  while  mourn 
ing  over  the  death-bed  of  his  uncle,  while  languishing  himself 
on  the  bed  of  sickness,  and  while,  a  sea-sick  mariner,  he  was 
tossed  upon  the  boisterous  waves — this  dream  was  fled.  She, 
who  had  always  risen  upon  his  imagination  as  the  morning 
star  of  his  destiny — this  being  he  had  met,  after  years  of 
romantic  anticipation — what  a  meeting  !  He  was  well  aware 
of  the  sad  ravages  one  of  the  violent  fevers  of  a  tropical  clime 
had  made  upon  his  beauty,  but,  never  attaching  much  value 
to  his  own  personal  attractions,  he  could  not  believe  that  the 
marks  of  a  divine  visitation  would  expose  him  to  ridicule,  or 
unkindness ;  of  an  extremely  sensitive  disposition,  he  was 
peculiarly  alive  to  the  stings  of  satire,  and  the  sarcastic  whis 
per  of  Miss  Temple  wounded  him  to  the  quick. 

"  What !"  said  he,  to  himself,  as  he  folded  his  arms  in 
melancholy  abstraction,  in  the  solitude  of  his  chamber,  "what, 
if  the  dark  luxuriance  of  waving  hair  which  once  shadowed 
my  temples,  is  now  gone,  is  not  thought  and  intelligence  still 
lingering  on  my  brow  ?  Are  there  no  warm  and  animated 
t  veins  of  feeling  in  my  heart,  because  the  tide  of  health'  no 
longer  colours  my  wan  and  faded  cheek  ?  These  enfeebled 
eyes,  which  I  must  now  shelter  from  the  too  dazzling  light, 
can  they  not  still  emit  the  rays  of  tenderness,  and  the  beams 
of  soul  ?  This  proud  beauty  !  May  she  live  to  know  what  a 
heart  she  has  wounded  !" 

He  rose  and  walked  slowly  across  the  floor,  pausing  before 
a  large  looking-glass,  which  fully  reflected  his  person.  He 
could  not  forbear  a  smile,  in  the  midst  of  his  melancholy,  at 


22  LOVE  AFTER   MARRIAGE. 

the  ludicrous  contrast  to  his  former  self,  and  acknowledge  it 
was  preposterous  to  expect  to  charm  at  first  sight,  under  the 
present  disastrous  eclipse.  He  almost  excused  the  covert 
ridicule  of  which  he  had  been  the  object,  and  began  to  pity 
the  beautiful  Augusta  for  the  disappointment  she  must  have 
endured.  It  was  under  the  influence  of  these  feelings  Mr. 
Temple  found  him. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  the  latter,  warmly  grasping  his 
hand,  and  gazing  earnestly  at  him — "  My  poor  boy  !  how  ill 
you  must  have  been  ! — your  uncle,  too" — the  warm-hearted 
man  was  incapable  of  uttering  another  syllabic,  not  more 
moved  at  that  moment,  by  the  recollection  of  his  friend,  than 
affected  by  the  transformation  of  the  blooming  boy,  whose 
waving  locks  were  once  so  singularly  beautiful. 

His  sympathy  was  so  unaffected,  his  welcome  so  warm,  and 
his  affection  expressed  in  so  heartfelt  a  manner,  that  Sydney, 
who  had  just  been  arming  himself  with  proud  philosophy 
against  the  indifference  and  neglect  of  the  world,  melted  into 
woman's  softness.  He  had  been  so  long  among  strangers, 
and  those  of  rougher  natures — had  experience^  so  cold  a  dis 
appointment  in  his  warmest  hopes — he  had  felt  so  blighted,  so 
alone — the  reaction  was  too  powerful,  it  unmanned  him.  Mr. 
Temple  was  a  remarkable  instance  of  a  man  who  retained  a 
youthful  enthusiasm  and  frankness  of  character,  after  a  long 
and  prtrsperous  intercourse  with  the  world  of  business.  The 
rapid  accumulation  of  wealth,  instead  of  narrowing,  as  it  too 
often  does,  enlarged  his  benevolent  heart.  When,  in  a  long 
and  confidential  conversation  with  Sydney,  he  learned  that 
Mr.  Allison  had  left  but  a  small  fortune  for  his  support,  in 
stead  of  the  immense  one  he  had  been  led  to  expect,  he  was 
more  than  ever  anxious  to  promote  his  union  with  bis  daughter. 
However  mysterious  it  seemed  that  Mr.  Allison's  property 
should  be  so  diminished,  or  have  been  so  much  overrated,  he 
rather  rejoiced  at  the  circumstance,  as  it  gave  him  an  oppor 
tunity  of  showing  his  gratitude  and  disinterestedness.  But 
Sydney  was  proud.  He  felt  the  circumstance  of  his  altered 
fortunes,  and,  though  not  a  poor  man,  was  no  longer  the  heir 
of  that  wealth  which  was  his  in  reversion  when  Mr.  Temple 
had  plighted  his  daughter  to  him.  In  his  short  interview 
with  her  he  had  gained  such  an  insight  into  her  character, 
that  he  recoiled  from  the  idea  of  appearing  before  her  as  her 
betrothed  lover. 

"  Receive  me  as  a  friend,"  said  he  to  Mr.  Temple ;  "  let 


LOVE  AFTER   MARRIAGE.  23 

your  daughter  learn  to  look  upon  me  as  such,  and  I  ask  no 
more;  unless  I  could  win  her  affections,  nothing  would  induce 
me  to  accept  of  her  hand — under  existing  circumstances,  I 
believe  that  impossible.  Much  as  I  feel  your  kindness,  and 
sacred  as  I  hold  the  wishes  of  the  dead,  I  hold  your  daughter's 
happiness  paramount  to  every  other  consideration.  This  must 
not  be  sacrificed  for  me.  Promise  me,  sir,  that  it  shall  not.  I 
should  be  more  wretched  than  words  can  express,  if  I  thought 
the  slightest  force  were  imposed  upon  her  sentiments." 

"Be  satisfied  on  that  score;  say  nothing  about  it;  only  let 
her  get  fully  acquainted  with  you,  and  there  will  be  no  occa 
sion  to  employ  force.  You  must  forget  the  mistake  of  the 
morning.  This  yellow  fever  makes  sad  work  of  a  man  when 
it  gets  hold  oi  him,  but  you  will  soon  revive  from  its  effects." 


Sydney  Allison  became  a  daily  visitor  at  Mr.  Temple's 
Had  he  assumed  the  privileges  of  a  lover,  Augusta  would 
have  probably  manifested,  in  a  wounding  manner,  the  aversion 
she  felt  for  him  in  that  character;  but  it  was  impossible  to 
treat  with  disdain  one  who  never  presumed  to  offer  any  atten 
tions  beyond  the  civilities  of  friendship.  Though  rendered 
vain  from  adulation,  and  selfish  from  indulgence,  and  though 
her  thoughtless  vivacity  often  made  her  forgetful  of  the  feel 
ings  of  others,  Augusta  Temple  was  not  destitute  of  redeeming 
virtues.  Nature  had  gifted  her  with  very  ardent  affections, 
and  opened  but  few  channels  in  which  those  affections  could 
flow.  She  had  the  great  misfortune  to  be  the  only  child  of  a 
rich,  widowed,  and  doting  parent,  and  from  infancy  had  been 
accustomed  to  see  every  one  around  her  subservient  to  her 
will.  She  had  reached  the  age  of  womanhood  without  know 
ing  one  real  sorrow,  or  meeting  with  a  being  who  had  excited 
in  any  degree  the  affections  of  her  heart.  Her  warm  and 
undisciplined  imagination  had  dwelt  for  years  on  one  image. 
She  had  clothed  it  in  the  most  splendid  hues  that  fancy  ever 
spread  upon  her  palette ;  and  had  poor  Sydney  appeared  be 
fore  her  in  his  original  brightness,  the  reality  would  probably 
have  been  dim,  to  the  visions  of  ideal  beauty  by  which  she 
had  been  so  long  haunted.  In  the  greatness  of  her  disappoint 
ment,  she  became  unjust  and  unreasonable,  violent  in  her  pre 
judices,  and  extravagant  in  the  manifestations  of  them.  But 
after  the  first  ebullition  of  her  grief,  she  grew  more  guarded, 
from  the  dread  of  her  father's  anger;  and  as  Sydney  continued 


24  LOVE   AFTER   MARRIAGE. 

the  same  reserved  and  dignified  deportment,  she  began  to  think 
her  father's  prediction  was  fulfilled,  and  that  their  aversion 
was  mutual.  She  did  not  derive  as  much  comfort  from  this 
supposition  as  might  be  anticipated.  She  had  dreaded  his  im 
portunity,  but  she  could  not  endure  his  indifference.  It  was 
in  vain  Mr.  Temple  urged  his  young  friend  to  a  different  course 
of  conduct ;  he  always  answered,  "  Let  her  cease  to  dread  m 
as  a  lover,  then  she  may  learn  to  prize  me  as  a  friend." 

One  evening,  there  was  a  concert  at  Mr.  Temple's.  Sydney, 
who  was  passionately  fond  of  music,  forgot  every  cause  of  in 
quietude,  while  abandoned  to  its  heavenly  influence.  He  stood 
near  the  fair  songstress  of  the  hour,  keeping  time  to  the  har 
mony,  while  in  a  pier-glass  opposite,  he  had  a  full  view  of  the 
groups  behind.  Augusta  was  a  little  in  the  rear,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  Miss  Manning.  He  could  gaze  on  her  image  thus 
reflected,  without  her  being  conscious  of  the  act,  and  he  sighed 
as  he  paid  involuntary  homage  to  her  brilliant  beauty.  Her 
figure  was  of  superb  proportions,  her  features  formed  on  the 
model  of  oriental  symmetry,  while  her  eyes  glittered  through 
their  dark  sweeping  lashes,  like  sunbeams  through  the  forest 
foliage.  She  stood  with  her  head  a  little  averted,  and  her  pro 
file  presented  the  softened  outline  of  the  lineaments  ascribed 
to  the  beautiful  daughters  of  Judah.  He  forgot  himself 
entirely,  in  the  contemplation  of  her  loveliness,  when  he  saw 
her  turn,  with  an  arch  smile,  and  hold  up  her  hands  in  a 
whimsical  attitude  in  the  direction  of  his  head,  as  if  in  the 
act  of  warming  them ;  for  the  full  blaze  of  the  chandeliers 
seemod  concentrated  in  that  point,  and  all  eyes,  lured  by  Au 
gusta's  gesture,  were  turned  upon  his  illuminated  skull.  For 
one  moment  Sydney  lost  his  self-possession,  and  the  angry 
spot  was  seen  distinctly  burning  on  his  sallow  cheek.  The 
next,  he  smiled  superior  to  such  weakness,  and  retreating  a 
few  steps,  bowed  for  her  to  pass  forward.  She  had  relied  on 
the  shade  that  covered  his  eyes,  for  security  from  detection, 
unconscious  of  the  piercing  glances  that  were  darting  beneath. 
Her  conscience  now  upbraided  her  for  her  folly,  and  she  felt 
with  bitterness  how  low  she  must  be  in  the  opinion  of  the 
man  whose  admiration  she  secretly  coveted,  notwithstanding 
the  ridicule  she  dared  to  throw  upon  his  person.  After  the 
company  dispersed,  she  remained  alone  in  the  drawing-room, 
dissatisfied  with  herself  and  sickening  at  the  pleasure  that 
surrounded  her.  The  door  softly  opened.  It  was  Sydney, 
who  had  returned  for  his  gloves,  which  he  had  left  on  the 


LOVE   AFTER   MARRIAGE.  25 

mantel-piece.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  found  herself 
alone  with  him,  and  she  felt  excessively  embarrassed.  In 
that  tone,  which  even  she  acknowledged  to  be  irresistibly 
sweet,  he  apologized  for  his  intrusion,  and  taking  his  gloves, 
was  retiring,  when  she,  ever  impulsive,  arrested  his  motions. 

"  Stay  one  moment,  Mr.  Allison — you  have  great  reason  to 
despise  me — I  have  treated  you  with  unpardonable  levity  and 
rudeness.  Though  I  can  hardly  hope  your  forgiveness,  I  can 
not  withhold  this  acknowledgment  of  my  errors ;  your  calm 
forbearance  has  done  more  for  my  reformation,  than  a  thou 
sand  reproofs." 

Surprised  and  softened  by  this  unexpected  avowal  from 
the  cold  sarcastic  Augusta,  whose  fluctuating  complexion  and 
agitated  voice  bore  witness  to  her  sincerity,  Allison  was  at 
first  incapable  of  replying. 

"  Your  present  candour,"  at  length  he  said,  "  would  in 
demnify  me  for  much  greater  suffering  than  you  have  ever 
inflicted  on  me.  Allow  me,  Miss  Temple,  to  take  advantage 
of  this  first  moment  of  confidence,  to  disarm  you  of  all  fear 
on  my  account.  The  relative  situation  in  which  we  have  been 
placed  by  others,  has  given  us  both  much  embarrassment; 
but  be  assured  my  only  wish  is  to  be  looked  upon  as  your 
friend.  Consider  yourself  as  entirely  unshackled.  In  brighter 
hours  I  might  have  aspired  to  the  distinction  our  parents  de 
signed  for  me;  but,  worn  down  by  sickness,  the  shadow  of  my 
former  self,  I  feel  but  too  sensibly,  that  the  only  sentiment  I 
can  now  inspire  in  the  female  heart,  is  that  of  compassion." 

Augusta  was  so  much  impressed  by  his  delicacy  and  gene 
rosity,  she  began  to  hate  herself  for  not  having  more  justly 
appreciated  his  worth.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face  and 
sighed — "  Ah  !"  said  she  to  herself,  "  I  must  respect  and 
esteem,  but  I  can  never  love  him."  Mr.  Temple,  who  had 
been  absent  the  whole  evening,  returned  at  this  moment,  and 
his  countenance  expressed  his  pleasure  in  finding  them  thus 
alone,  in  apparently  confidential  conversation  with  each  other. 

"Do  not  go,  Allison,"  said  he;  "I  have  been  oppressed 
with  business  to-night,  and  I  want  a  little  social  enjoyinen 
before  I  sleep.     Besides,  I  do  not  feel  quite  well." 

They  now  observed  that  he  looked  unusually  pale,  and 
pressed  his  hand  upon  his  head,  as  if  in  pain. 

"  Father,"  said  Augusta,  "  you  do  indeed  look  ill ;  you 
have  fatigued  yourself  too  much.  A  glass  of  wine  will  revive 
you." 


26  LOVE   AFTER   MARRIAGE. 

She  brought  him  the  glass,  but  just  as  he  took  it  from  her 
hand  with  a  smile,  a  sudden  spasm  came  over  him,  and  he 
fell  back  in  his  chair,  speechless  and  convulsed.  Augusta's 
piercing  shriek  alarmed  the  servants,  who,  rushing  in,  beheld 
their  master  supported  in  the  arms  of  Allison,  gasping  for 
breath,  while  Augusta  was  trying  to  loosen  his  cravat  with 
hands  nerveless  from  terror.  A  physician  was  directly  sum 
moned,  who  bled  him*,  profusely,  and  after  a  few  hours  con 
sciousness  was  restored.  He  was  removed  to  his  chamber, 
and  Allison  remained  with  him  during  the  remainder  of  the 
night.  Augusta  sat  by  her  father's  bedside  holding  his  hand, 
almost  stunned  by  the  suddenness  of  the  calamity.  Never, 
since  her  recollection,  had  her  father  known  an  hour's  sick 
ness;  and  now  to  be  prostrated  at  once,  in  the  midst  of  florid 
health,  it  was  awful.  She  dared  not  ask  the  physician  if 
there  was  danger,  lest  he  should  confirm  her  worst  fears. 
She  looked  at  Allison,  and,  in  his  pale  and  anxious  counte 
nance,  she  saw  a  reflection  of  her  own  anxiety  and  sorrow. 
Towards  morning  Mr.  Temple  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked 
earnestly  round  him. 

"  My  children,"  said  he,  "  come  near  me — both — both." 

"  Father,"  cried  Augusta,  "  we  are  near  thee — oh  !  my 
father,  say  that  you  are  better — only  say  that  you  will  live." 

As  she  uttered  the  last  word  she  bowed  her  head  upon  the 
bed  cover,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  were  breaking. 

"  My  child,"  said  Mr.  Temple,  faintly,  "you  must  call  >jj)on. 
Ged  to  sustain  you,  for  there  is  need.  I  feel  that  the  hand 
of  death  is  on  me.  Sudden  and  awful  is  the  summons — but 
it  must  be  obeyed.  Doctor,  I  would  see  my  minister.  Not 
to  give  peace  to  my  parting  soul — for  all  is  peace  here"  said 
he,  laying  his  hand  feebly  on  his  heart,  "peace  with  God  and 
man — but  there  is  one  thing  I  would  witness  before  I  die." 

Sydney,  who  stood  at  the  bed's  head,  trembled  at  the  im 
port  of  these  words;  Augusta  in  her  agony  comprehended 
them  not. 

"  Sydney,  my  son,  give  me  your  hand ;  Augusta,  is  this 
yc-ur  hand  I  hold  ?  My  children,  if  you  would  bless  my  last 
hour,  you  must  let  my  dying  eyes  behold  your  union.  It 
W'll  gladden  my  friend,  when  I  meet  him  in  another  world, 
to  tell  him  his  last  wishes  are  consummated.  Do  you  con 
sent,  my  children  ?" 

He  looked  up  to  Sydney,  with  that  earnest  expression  wh;ch 
ia  oever  seen  except  in  the  eye  of  the  dying,  and  pressed  their 


LOVE  AFTER   MARRIAGE.  2? 

hands  together  in  his,  already  cold  and  dewy  with  the  damps 
of  death.  Sydney  sunk  upon  his  knees,  unutterably  affected. 
All  the  happiness  of  his  future  life  was  at  stake,  but  it  seemed 
as  nothing  at  that  moment. 

"  Your  daughter,  sir  ?"  was  all  he  could  utter. 

"  Augusta,"  repeated  Mr.  Temple,  in  a  voice  fearfully  hol 
low,  "  will  you  not  speak  ?"  • 

"Oh!  my  father,"  she  murmured, .."  do  with  me  as  you 
will,  only  take  me  with  you." 

The  reverend  figure  of  the  minister  was  now  added  to  the 
group  that  surrounded  that  bed  of  death.  Strange  and  awful 
was  the  bridal  ceremony,  performed  at  such  a  moment,  and 
attended  by  such  solemnities.  Sydney  felt  that  he  was  mys 
teriously  and  irresistibly  impelled  on  to  the  fulfilment  of  his 
destiny,  without  any  volition  of  his  own ;  and  he  supported, 
with  a  firm  arm,  the  sinking  form  of  her  he  was  now  to  call 
his  own.  It  was  with  bloodless  lips  and  deadened  perceptions 
A.ugusta  repeated  her  vows ;  but  low  as  they  were,  they  fell 
like  music  on  the  ear  that  was  so  shortly  to  close  to  all  earthly 
sound. 

"  There  is  a  blessing  above,  mingling  with  mine,"  faintly 
articulated  the  dying  man.  "  I  bless  you,  my  dear  children, 
and  ye  will  be  blessed." 

These  were  the  last  words  he  ever  uttered.  Augusta  fell 
almost  lifeless  on  her  father's  bosom,  but  what  was  a  moment 
befo,r£.  the  temple  of  an  immortal  spirit,  was  now  but  dust  and 
ashes.  At  the  same  moment  an  orphan  and  a  bride,  she  was 
incapable  of  comprehending  the  startling  realities  of  her  situa 
tion.  The  images  that  flitted  through  her  mind,  were  like  the 
phantasmagoria  of  a  dream — a  vague  impression  of  something 
awful  and  indescribable  having  occurred,  a  wild  fear  of  some 
thing  more  awful  still  impending,  filled  her  imagination  and 
paralyzed  her  frame.  But  Allison  had  a  full  and  aching  sense 
of  the  responsibilities  so  unexpectedly  imposed  upon  him. 
He  mourned  for  the  venerated  and  generous  friend  so  sud 
denly  snatched  away;  but  he  grieved  most  of  all,  that  his  last 
act  had  placed  in  his  keeping  that  to  which  he  felt  he  had  no 
legitimate  right.  No  selfish  repinings  filled  his  heart — but  to 
find  himself  married,  joined  irrevocably  to  a  woman  who  had 
given  him  so  many  proofs  of  personal  aversion ;  who  never, 
till  that  evening,  had  evinced  towards  him  the  slightest  sensi 
bility — a  woman  whom  he  did  not  love,  and  whose  superior 
fortune  burdened  him  with  a  painful  sense  of  obligation— 


28  LOVE   AFTER   MARRIAGE. 

there  was  something  inexpressibly  galling  and  humbling  -in 
these  circumstances,  to  the  sensitive  and  high-minded  Allison. 
Tenderness,  however,  mingled  with  the  bitterness  of  his  re 
flections  ;  and  even  then,  he  could  have  taken  her  to  his  heart, 
and  wept  over  her  tears  of  sympathy  and  sorrow,  had  he  no^t 
dreaded  that  she  would  recoil  from  his  embraces.  He  did  not 
intrude  on  the  safcredness  of  her  grief,  and  for  days  she  buried 
herself  in  the  solitude  of  her  chamber.  She  admitted  no  one 
but  her  chosen  friend,  Miss  Manning,  who  represented  her  as 
inconsolable,  either  sunk  in  a  torpor,  from  which  nothing  could 
arouse  her,  or  in  a  state  of  nervous  excitement  still  more  dis 
tressing.  He  waited,  hoping  that  time  would  restore  her  to 
comparative  composure,  and  that  she  would  be  willing  to  re 
ceive  from  him  the  consolations  of  friendship.  Finding,  at 
length,  that  she  persevered  in  her  system  of  solitary  grief, 
and  that  time,  while  it  must,  according  to  its  immutable  laws, 
soften  her  anguish  for  her  father's  death,  probably  increased 
her  dread  of  the  shackles  that  bound  her,  his  resolution  was 
taken.  In  a  shor  t  time  everything  was  arranged  for  his  de 
parture  to  a  foreign  land.  The  ship,  in  which  he  was  bound 
a  passenger,  was  ready  to  sail,  when  he  requested  a  parting 
interview  with  Augusta.  A  parting  interview  ! — Augusta  was 
roused  at  that  sound,  from  the  selfishness  of  her  grief.  He 
was  going  into  banishment,  and  she  was  the  cause.  For  the 
first  time  since  the  bridal  ceremony,  the  thought  forced  itself 
into  her  mind,  that  he  too  might  have  cause  for  sorrow,  and 
that  his  happiness  might  be  sacrificed  as  well  as  her  own. 
Allison  was  greatly  shocked,  to  see  the  change  wrought  in  her 
radiant  face.  He  was  so  much  agitated,  he  forgot  everything 
he  purposed  to  say,  and  remembered  only  the  strangeness  of 
their  situation.  He  endeavoured  to  repress  his  own  emotion, 
that  he  might  not  increase  hers;  while  she,  unused  to  self-con 
trol,  abandoned  herself  to  a  passion  of  tears.  He  approached 
her  with  tenderness  and  solemnity,  and  entreated  her  to  listen 
to  him,  as  a  friend,  as  one  willing  to  promote  her  happiness 
by  any  sacrifice  she  might  require.  "  I  go,"  said  he,  "  Au 
gusta,  to  another  clime,  whose  genial  influence  may  restore 
me  again  some  portion  of  my  former  vigour.  I  go,  too,  in  the 
hope,  that  in  my  absence  you  will  learn  submission  to  a  destiny 
which  my  presence  renders  insupportable.  If  you  knew  the 
anguish  that  fills  my  heart,  when  I  think  of  myself  as  the 
involuntary  cause  of  your  wretchedness,  you  would  pity  me, 
even  as  much  as  you  abhor.  Hear  me,  Augusta,  while  I  re- 


LOVE   AFTER   MARRIAGE.  29 

peat  with  all  the  solemnity  of  the  vows  that  bound  us  to  each 
other,  thai  1  will  never  claim  the  name  of  husband,  till  your 
own  tree  alleetions  hallow  the  sacred  title.  In  the  mean  time 
I  leave  you  with  one  who  will  be  to  you  as  a  loving  sister,  in 
whose  lather  you  will  find  a  faithful  and  affectionate  guardian 
— will  you  not  part  from  me,  at  least  in  kindness  ?" 

Augusta  sat,  with  her  arms  thrown  around  Miss  Manning, 
weeping,  yet  subdued.  All  the  best  impulses  of  her  nature 
were  wakened  and  active.  She  would  have  given  worlds  to 
say  something  expressive  of  her  remorse  and  regret  for  her 
selfishness  and  waywardness.  Clasping  her  hands  together 
she  exclaimed,  "  Oh  !  forgive  me,  Sydney,  that  I  cannot  love 
you  j"  ihen,  conscious  that  she  was  only  wounding  more  doeply 
when  she  wished  to  heal,  she  only  uttered,  "  what  an  unfor 
tunate  wretch  I  am  I" 

'  We  are  both  unfortunate,"  said  he,  moved  beyond  his 
po-fter  ot  control — "but  we  may  not  be  always  miserable. 
Something  whispers  me,  that  we  shall  meet  again  -with 
chastened  feelings,  capable  of  appreciating  all  that  is  excel 
lent  in  each  other,  and  both  earnest  in  the  endeavour  to  v^erit 
the  blessing  that  hallowed  our  nuptial  tie.  I  leave  you  that 
you  may  be  restored  to  tranquillity — I  may  never  retuia — I 
pray  to  God,  that  he  may  find  me  a  grave  in  that  ocean  to 
whose  bosom  I  am  about  to  commit  myself,  if  I  am  only  to 
live  for  the  misery  of  others." 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Augusta,  "  this  must  not  be,  you  must  not 
become  an  exile  for  me." 

"  Listen  to  her,"  said  Miss  Manning,  earnestly,  her  whole 
soul  wrought  up  into  the  most  painful  excitement,  at  the  sight 
of  their  mutual  distress — "  indeed,  sir,  you  are  doing  what  is 
rash  and  uncalled  for — oh !  why,  with  so  much  to  bind  you 
together,  with  qualities  capable  of  inspiring  the  strongest 
attachment  in  each  other,  will  ye  close  up  your  hearts  in  this 
manner,  and  resolve  to  be  miserable  ?" 

' '  I  cannot  now  remain  if  I  would,  as  I  have  taken  steps 
which  cannot  well  be  recalled — your  father,  Miss  Manning, 
knows  and  approves  my  intention.  He  is  the  delegated  guar 
dian  and  protector  of  Augusta.  I  will  not,  I  cannot  prolong 
the  pain  of  these  moments.  Farewell,  Augusta  !  think  of  me, 
if  possible,  with  kindness — should  I  live  to  return,  I  will  be 
to  you  friend,  brother,  or  husband,  as  your  own  heart  shall 
dictate." 

He  pressed  her  cold  and  passive  hand  in  his — turned,  ar»J 
103 


30  LOVE   AFTER   MARRIAGE. 

was  gone.  Augusta  would  have  spoken,  but  slie  seemed  as 
if  under  the  influence  of  a  nightmare.  Her  faculties  were 
spell-bound ;  she  would  have  returned  the  parting  pressure  of 
his  hand,  but  her  fingers  seemed  icicles.  She  shuddered  with 
superstitious  dread.  Her  father's  upbraiding  spirit  appeared 
to  her  imagination,  armed  with  the  terrors  of  the  grave,  and 
threatening  her  with  the  retribution  of  heaven.  Poor  Au 
gusta  !  her  mind  required  the  stern,  but  salutary  discipline  of 
adversity,  and  that  discipline  was  preparing.  How  she  pro 
fited  by  the  teachings  of  this  monitress,  whose  lessons,  however 
hard,  have  such  high  and  celestial  bearings,  the  eveuts  of  after 
years  may  show. 


Augusta  and  her  friend  are  once  more  presented  to  the 
view  of  the  reader,  but  the  destiny  of  the  former  is  changed. 
They  are  seated  in  a  parlour  side  by  side,  but  it  is  not  the 
same,  rich  in  all  the  adornments  of  wealth  and  fashion,  that 
Augusta  once  occupied.  It  is  in  a  neat  rural  cottage,  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  country,  embosomed  iu  trees  and  flowers. 
A  few  words  will  explain  the  past.  Mr.  Temple's  open, 
generous,  uncatculating  disposition  had  exposed  him  to  the 
designs  of  the  mercenary  and  treacherous.  He  never  could 
refuse  to  endorse  a  note  for  a  friend,  or  to  loan  money  when 
it  was  asked  with  a  look  of  distress.  He  believed  his  resources 
as  exhaustless  as  his  benevolence ;  but  by  the  failure  of  several 
houses  with  which  he  was  largely  connected,  his  estate  was 
involved  in  ruin,  and  his  daughter  left  destitute  of  fortune. 
Mr.  Manning  suffered  so  much  himself  in  the  general  loss,  he 
was  obliged  to  sell  all  that  he  still  possessed  in  the  city  and 
retire  into  the  country,  with  limited  means  of  subsistence. 
But,  though  limited,  he  had  sufficient  for  all  the  comforts  of 
life,  and  what  he  deemed  its  luxuries — books,  music,  the 
socialities  of  friendship,  and  the  exercise  of  the  kindly  chari 
ties.  A  cherished  member  of  this  charming  family,  Augusta 
no  longer  the  spoiled  child  of  fortune,,  but  the  chastened  dis 
ciple  of  sorrow,  learned  to  estimate  the  true  purposes  of  her 
being,  and. to  mourn  over  her  former  perversity.  With  such 
ennobled  views  of  life  and  its  enjoyments,  she  began  to  think 
she  might  be  happy  with  a  husband,  with  such  irreproachable 
worth  and  exalted  attributes  as  Sydney  Allison,  even  though 
he  had  the  misfortune  to  be  bald  and  sallow.  But  him  she 
had  banished,  and  when  would  he  return  ?  He  had  written 


LOVE   AFTER   MARRIAGE.  31 

to  her  once  or  twice,  in  the  most  affectionate  manner,  as  a 
brother  would  write ;  he  had  spoken  of  amended  health  and 
reviving  spirits,  but  he  spoke  of  his  return  as  of  something 
indefinite  and  even  remote.     She  too  had  written,  and  her    , 
letters   were  transcripts  of  the  progressive   elevation   of  her 
character,  and  expressed  with  candour  and  warmth  the  just 
appreciation  she  now  had  of  his  own.     She  was  uncertain  \ 
whether  they  had  ever  reached  him.     It  was  long  since  she 
had  received  any  tidings,  and  she  felt  at  times  that  sickness 
of  the  heart,  which  suspense  unfed  by  hope  creates. 

"  I  bring  you  a  messenger,  who  I  trust  is  the  bearer  of  glad 
tidings,"  said  Mr.  Manning,  entering,  with  a  benevolent  smile, 
and  ushering  in  a  young  gentleman,  whom  he  introduced  by 
the  name  of  Clarence.  "  Augusta,  you  will  greet  him  with 
joy,  for  he  comes  with  letters  from  Mr.  Allison,  your  hus 
band." 

Augusta  sprang  forward,  scarcely  waiting  to  go  through  the 
customary  form  of  introduction,  and  took  the  letter  with  a 
trembling  hand.  "  Tell  me,  sir,  do  you  know  him,  and  is  he 
well  ?"  The  stranger  bent  his  dark  and  lustrous  eyes  upon 
her  face,  with  a  look  of  undisguised  admiration. 

"  I  know  him  intimately,  madam ;  when  I  last  saw  him, 
he  was  in  perfect  health,  and  animated  by  the  prospect  of  a 
speedy  return." 

Augusta  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  retired  to  her  own 
chamber,  t,n  peruse  the  epistle  she  had  so  anxiously  antici 
pated.  It  was  in  answer  to  her  last,  and  breathed  the  lan 
guage  of  hope  and  confidence.  There  was  a  warmth,  a  fervour 
of  sentiment,  far  different  from  his  former  cold,  but  kind  com 
munications.  He  rejoiced  in  the  knowledge  of  her  altered 
fortune,  for  he  could  prove  his  disinterestedness,  and  show 
her  that  he  loved  her  for  herself  alone,  by  returning  and  de 
voting  himself  to  the  task  of  winning  her  affections.  "  Say 
not,  my  Augusta,"  said  he  in  conclusion,  "  that  I  cannot  win 
the  prize.  All  the  energies  of  my  heart  and  soul  are  enlisted 
for  the  contest.  I  could  look  on  your  beauty,  all  dazzling  a 
it  is,  without  much  emotion ;  but  the  humility,  the  trust,  th 
gentleness  and  feeling  expressed  in  your  letter  has  melted  me 
into  tenderness.  Dare  I  indulge  in  the  blissful  dream,  that 
even  now  gilds  this  page  with  the  hues  of  heaven  ?  Augusta, 
the  sad,  reluctant  bride,  transformed  into  the  fond  and  faith 
ful  wife,  cherished  in  my  yearning  bosom,  and  diffusing  there 
the  life,  the  warmth,  the  fragrance  of  love  I" 


82  LOVE  AFTER   MARRIAGE. 

Augusta's  tears  rained  over  the  paper.  "  Oh  !  Allison,' 
she  cried,  "  the  task  shall  not  be  in  vain ;  I  will  love  thee  for 
thy  virtues,  and  the  blessing  my  dying  father  called  down, 
may  yet  rest  upon  us."  She  was  about  to  fold  the  letter, 
when  a  postscript  on  the  envelope  met  her  eye.  "  Receive 
Clarence,"  it  said,  "  as  my  friend — he  knows  all  my  history, 
and  the  peculiarity  of  our  situation — he  is  interested  in  you, 
for  my  sake — as  a  stranger  and  my  especial  friend,  may  I  ask 
for  him  the  hospitable  attentions  of  Mr.  Manning's  family  ?" 

When  she  descended  into  the  room,  where  Clarence  was 
seated,  she  could  not  repress  a  painful  blush,  from  the  con 
sciousness  that  he  was  familiar  with  her  singular  history. 
"  He  must  despise  me,"  thought  she ;  but  the  deference,  and 
respect  of  his  manner  forbade  such  an  impression.  Gradually 
recovering  from  her  embarrassment,  and  finding  him  directing 
his  conversation  principally  to  Mr.  Manning,  she  had  leisure 
to  observe  one  who  possessed  strong  interest  in  her  eyes,  as 
the  friend  of  Allison.  And  seldom  does  the  eye  of  woman. 
rest  upon  a  more  graceful  or  interesting  figure,  or  a  more 
expressive  and  glowing  countenance.  There  was  a  lambent 
brightness  in  his  eyes,  a  mantling  bloom  upon  his  cheek,  that 
indicated  indwelling  light  and  conscious  youth.  His  hair 
clustered  in  soft  waves  round  his  temples,  relieving  by  its 
darkness  the  unsunned  whiteness  of  his  forehead.  Yet  the 
prevailing  charm  was  manner,  that  indescribable  charm,  that, 
like  sunshine  in  the  summer  landscape,  gilded  and  vivified 
the  whole.  The  acquisition  of  such  a  guest  gave  life  and  ani 
mation  to  the  domestic  circle.  Mr.  Manning  was  a  man  of 
varied  information,  and  the  society  of  this  accomplished  travel 
ler  recalled  the  classic  enthusiasm  of  his  earlier  days.  Mary, 
though  usually  reserved  to  strangers,  seemed  fascinated  into 
a  forgetfulness  of  herself,  and  found  herself  a  partaker  of  a 
conversation  to  which  at  first  she  was  only  a  timid  listener. 
Augusta,  while  she  acknowledged  the  stranger's  uncommon 
power  to  please,  was  preoccupied  by  the  contents  of  her  hus 
band's  letter,  and  longed  to  be  alone  with  Mary,  whose  sym 
pathy  was  always  as  spontaneous  as  it  was  sincere.  She  was 
not  disappointed  in  the  readiness  of  Mary's  sympathy;  but 
after  having  listened  again  and  again,  and  expressed  her  hope 
and  joy  that  all  would  yet  be  for  the  happiest  and  the  best, 
she  returned  to  the  subject  next  in  interest,  the  bearer  of  this 
precious  document.  "  Ah  !  my  dear  Augusta,"  said  she,  "  if 
Allison's  noble  spirit  had  been  enshrined  in  such  a  temple, 


LOVE  AFTER   MARRIAGE.  fat 

you  had  not  been  parted  now."  Augusta  felt  the  comparison 
odious.  It  brought  before  her  the  person  of  Allison  in  too 
melancholy  a  contrast  with  the  engaging  stranger.  "  I  thought 
it  was  Mary  Manning,"  answered  she  in  a  grave  tone,  "  who 
once  reproved  me  for  attaching  too  much  importance  to  manly 
beauty — I  never  thought  you  foolish  or  unkind  till  this  mo 
ment." 

"  Forgive  me,"  cried  Mary,  with  irresistible  frankness ; 
"  foolish  I  may  be,  indeed  I  know  I  am ;  but  intentionally 
unkind  to  you — never — never."  It  did  not  require  the  recol 
lection  of  all  Mary's  tried  friendship  and  sincerity,  for  Augusta 
to  accord  her  forgiveness.  Mary  was  more  guarded  afterwards 
in  the  expression  of  her  admiration,  but  Augusta,  in  her 
imagination,  had  drawn  the  horoscope  of  Mary's  destiny,  and 
Clarence  shone  there,  as  the  star  that  was  to  give  it  radiance. 
A  constant  guest  of  her  father's,  she  thought  it  impossible 
for  him  to  witness  Mary's  mild,  yet  energetic  virtues,  without 
feeling  their  influence.  She  was  interesting  without  being 
beautiful,  and  Clarence  evidently  delighted  in  her  conversa 
tion.  To  her,  he  was  always  more  reserved,  yet  there  was  a 
deference,  an  interest,  a  constant  reference  to  her  wishes  and 
opinions,  that  was  as  delicate  as  it  was  flattering.  He  was 
the  companion  of  their  walks,  and  nature,  never  more  lovely 
than  in  this  delightful  season,  acquired  new  charms  from  the 
enthusiasm  with  which  he  sought  out  and  expatiated  on  its 
beauties.  Mr.  Manning  was  passionately  fond  of  music,  and 
every  evening-  Mary  and  Augusta  were  called  upon  for  his 
favourite  songs.  Now  the  music  was  finer  than  ever,  for 
Clarence  accompanied  them  with  his  flute,  and  sometimes 
with  his  voice,  which  was  uncommonly  sweet  and  melodious. 
One  evening  Augusta  was  seated  at  the  piano ;  she  was  not 
an  excelling  performer,  but  she  played  with  taste  and  feeling, 
and  she  had  endeavoured  to  cultivate  her  talent,  for  she  remem 
bered  that  Allison  was  a  lover  of  music.  She  had  played  all 
Mr.  Manning's  songs,  and  turned  over  the  leaves,  without 
thinking  of  any  particular  tune,  when  Clarence  arrested  her 
at  one,  which  he  said  was  Allison's  favourite  air.  "  Let  ua 
play  and  sing  that,"  said  he,  repeating  the  words,  "your  hus 
band  loves  it,  we  were  together  when  he  first  heard  it;  it  wag 
sung  by  an  Italian  songstress,  whom  you  have  often  struck 
me  as  resembling.  The  manner  in  which  your  hair  is  now 
parted  in  front,  with  those  falling  curls  behind,  increases  the 
resemblance;  it  is  very  striking  at  this  moment" 


d4  LOVE  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

Augusta  felt  a  strange  pang  penetrate  her  heart,  when  he 
asked  her  for  her  husband's  favourite.  There  was  something, 
too,  in  his  allusion  to  her  personal  appearance  that  embar 
rassed  her.  He  had  paid  her  no  compliment,  yet  she  blushed 
as  if  guilty  of  receiving  one.  "  I  cannot  play  it,"  answered 
she,  looking  up,  "  but  I  will  try  to  learn  it  for  his  sake."  She 
could  not  prevent  her  voice  from  faltering ;  there  was  an  ex 
pression  in  his  eyes,  when  they  met  hers,  that  bowed  them 
down,  in  shame  and  apprehension.  It  was  so  intense  and 
thrilling — she  had  never  met  such  a  glance  before,  and  she 
feared  to  interpret  it. 

"  Shall  I  sing  it  for  you  ?"  asked  he ;  and  leaning  over  the 
instrument,  he  sang  in  a  low,  mellow  voice,  one  of  those  im 
passioned  strains,  which  the  fervid  genius  of  Italy  alone  can 
produce.  The  words  were  eloquent  of  love  and  passion,  and 
Augusta,  charmed,  melted  by  their  influence,  could  not  divest 
herself  of  a  feeling  of  guilt  as  she  listened.  A  new  and 
powerful  light  was  breaking  upon  her ;  truth  held  up  ita 
blazing  torch,  flashing  its  rays  into  the  darkest  corners  of  her 
heart  •  and  conscience,  discovering  passions,  of  whose  very 
existence  she  had  been  previously  unconscious.  She  saw  re 
vealed  in  prophetic  vision,  the  misery  of  her  future  existence, 
the  misery  she  was  entailing  on  herself,  on  others,  and  a  cold 
shudder  ran  through  her  frame.  Mary,  alarmed  at  her  exces 
sive  paleness,  brought  her  a  glass  of  water,  and  asked  her  if 
she  were  ill.  Grateful  for  an  excuse  to  retire,  she  rose  and 
took  Mary's  arm  to  leave  the  room;  but  as  she  passed  through 
the  door,  which  Clarence  opened  and  held,  she  could  not  avoid 
encountering  again  a  glance  so  tender  and  impassioned,  she 
could  not  veil  to  herself  the  language  it  conveyed.  Augusta 
had  thought  herself  miserable  before,  but  never  had  she  shed 
such  bitter  tears  as  bathed  her  pillow  that  night.  Just  as 
she  had  schooled  herself  to  submission ;  just  as  she  was 
cherishing  the  most  tender  and  grateful  feelings  towards  her 
husband,  resolving  to  make  her  future  life  one  long  task  of 
expiation,  a  being  crossed  her  path,  who  realized  all  her  early 
visions  of  romance,  and  who  gently  and  insidiously  had  en 
twined  himself  into  the  very  chords  of  her  existence ;  and 
now,  when  she  felt  the  fold,  and  struggled  to  free  herself  from 
the  enthral  rnent,  she  found  herself  bound  as  with  fetters  of 
iron  and  clasps  of  steel.  That  Clarence  loved  her,  she  could 
not  doubt.  Enlightened  as  to  Wie  state  of  her  own  heart,  she 
«ow  recollected  a  thousand  covert  marks  of  tenderness  and 


LOVE   AFTER   MARRIAGE.  35 

regard.  He  had  been  admitted  to  the  most  unreserved  inter 
course  with  her,  as  the  friend  of  her  husband.  Like  herself, 
he  had  been  cherishing  sentiments  of  whose  strength  he  was 
unaware,  and  which,  when  revealed  in  their  full  force,  would 
make  him  tremble.  She  now  constantly  avoided  his  society. 
Her  manners  were  cold  and  constrained,  and  her  conscious 
eyes  sought  the  ground.  But  Clarence,  though  he  saw  the 
change,  and  could  not  be  ignorant  of  the  cause,  was  not  re 
buked  or  chilled  by  her  coldness.  He  seemed  to  call  forth, 
with  more  animation,  the  rich  resources  of  his  mind,  his  en 
thusiasm  was  more  glowing,  his  voice  had  more  music,  and 
his  smile  more  brightness.  It  was  evident  she  alone  was  un 
happy  ;  whatever  were  his  feelings,  they  inspired  no  remorse. 
She  besjan  to  believe  her  own  vanity  had  misled  her,  and  that 
he  only  looked  upon  her  as  the  wife  of  his  friend.  She  had 
mistaken  the  luminousness  of  his  eyes  for  the  fire  of  passion. 
Her  credulity  abased  her  in  her  own  estimation. 

One  afternoon  Clarence  found  her  alone.  She  had  declined 
accompanying  Mary  and  her  father  in  a  walk,  because  she 
thought  Clarence  was  to  be  with  them.  "  I  did  not  expect 
to  find  you  alone,"  said  he,  taking  a  seat  by  her  side — 
"  but  since  I  have  gained  such  a  privilege,  may  I  ask,  with 
out  increasing  your  displeasure,  in  what  I  have  offended  ? 
You  shun  my  society — your  averted  looks,  your  altered  mien" 
— he  paused,  for  her  embarrassment  was  contagious,  and  the 
sentence  remained  unfinished.  The  appeal  was  a  bold  one, 
but  a?  a  friend  he  had  a  right  to  make  it. 

"  You  have  not  offended  me,"  at  length  she  answered,  "but 
you  know  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  my  life,  and  cannot 
wonder  if  my  spirits  sometimes  droop,  when  reflecting  on  the 
misery  of  the  past,  and  the  uncertainty  of  the  future." 

"  If,"  said  he,  "  the  uncertainty  of  the  future  makes  you 
unhappy  as  it  regards  yourself,  you  may  perhaps  have  cause 
of  uneasiness,  but  as  it  respects  Allison,  as  far  as  I  know  his 
sentiments,  he  has  the  fullest  confidence,  and  the  brightest 
hopes  of  felicity.  I  once  looked  upon  him  as  the  most  un 
fortunate,  but  I  now  view  him  as  the  most  blessed  of  men. 
When  he  told  me  the  circumstances  of  his  exile,  how  lone 
and  hopeless  seemed  his  lot !  Now,  when  I  see  all  that  wooes 
him  to  return,  angels  might  covet  his  destiny." 

"  You  forget  yourself,"  cried  Augusta,  not  daring  to  take 
iu  the  full  meaning  of  his  words — "  it  is  not  the  oifice  of  a 


36  LOVE   AFTER   MAKRIAGE. 

friend  to  flatter — Allison  never  flattered — I  always  revered 
him  for  his  truth." 

"  Yes  I"  exclaimed  Clarence,  "  he  has  truth  and  integrity. 
They  call  him  upright,  and  honourable,  and  just ;  but  is  he 
not  cold  and  senseless  to  remain  in  banishment  so  long, 
leaving  his  beautiful  wife  in  widowhood  and  sorrow  !  and  was 
-  lie  not  worse  than  mad  to  send  me  here  the  herald  of  himself, 
o  expose  me  to  the  influence  of  your  loveliness,  knowing  that 
to  see  you,  to  be  near  you,  must  be  to  love,  nay,  even  to  wor 
ship." 

"  You  have  driven  me  from  you  for  ever  !"  cried  Augusta, 
rising  in  indignant  astonishment,  at  the  audacity  of  this 
avowal.  "  Allison  shall  learn  in  what  a  friend  he  has  con 
fided." 

"  I  am  prepared  for  your  anger,"  continued  he,  with  in 
creasing  impetuosity,  "  but  I  brave  it ;  your  husband  will 
soon  return,  and  I  shall  leave  you.  Tell  him  of  all  my  bold 
ness,  and  all  my  sincerity;  tell  him  too  all  the  emotions  that 
are  struggling  in  your  heart  for  me,  for  oh  !  you  cannot  deny 
it,  there  is  a  voice  pleading  for  my  pardon,  in  your  bosom 
now,  and  telling  you,  that,  if  it  is  a  crime  to  love,  that  one 
crime  is  mutual." 

"  Then  I  am  indeed  a  wretch!"  exclaimed  Augusta,  sinking 
down  into  a  chair,  and  clasping  her  hands  despairingly  over 
her  face;  "but  I  deserve  this  humiliation."  Clarence  drew 
nearer  to  her — she  hesitated — he  trembled.  The  triumphant 
fire  that  revelled  in  his  eyes  was  quenched;  compassion,  ten 
derness,  and  self-reproach  softened  their  beams.  He  was  in 
the  very  act  of  kneeling  before  her,  to  deprecate  her  forgive 
ness,  when  the  door  softly  opened,  and  Mary  Manning  entered. 
Her  step  was  always  gentle,  and  she  had  approached  unheard. 
She  looked  at  them  first  with  a  smile,  but  Augusta's  counte 
nance  was  not  one  that  could  reflect  a  smile ;  and  on  Mary's 
face,  at  that  moment,  it  appeared  to  her  as  a  smile  of  derision. 
Clarence  lingered  a  moment,  as  if  unwilling  to  depart,  yet  un 
certain  whether  to  remain  or  go — then  asking  Mary  for  her 
father,  he  hastily  retired,  leaving  Augusta  in  a  state  of  such 
agitation,  that  Mary,  seriously  alarmed,  entreated  her  to  ex 
plain  the  cause  of  her  distress. 

"  Explain  !"  cried  Augusta.  "  You  have  witnessed  my 
humiliation,  and  yet  ask  me  the  cause.  I  do  not  claim  your 
sympathy,  the  grief  I  now  feel  admits  of  none ;  I  was  born 
to  be  unhappy,  and  whichever  way  I  turn,  I  am  wretched." 


LOVE   AFTER   MARRIAGE.  37 

"  Only  tell  me  one  thing,  dear  Augusta,  is  all  your  grief 
owing  to  the  discovery  of  your  love  for  Clarence,  and  to  the 
sentiments  with  which  you  have  inspired  him  ?  There  is  no 
humiliation  in  loving  Clarence — for  who  could  know  him  and 
not  love  him  ?" 

Augustas-looked  in  Mary's  face,  assured  that  she  was  utter- 
'ng  the  language  of  mockery.  Mary,  the  pure  moralist,  the 
nild,  but  uncompromising  advocate  for  duty  and  virtue,  thus 
«o  palliate  the  indulgence  of  a  forbidden  passion  !  It  could 
only  be  in  derision ;  yet  her  eye  was  so  serene,  and  her  smile 
so  kind,  it  was  impossible  to  believe  that  contempt  was  lurking 
beneath.  "  Then  you  do  love  him,  Mary,  and  I  am  doubly 
treacherous !" 

Mary  blushed — "  with  the  affection  of  a  sister,  the  tender 
ness  of  a  friend,  do  I  regard  him;  I  admire  his  talents,  I 
venerate  his  virtues." 

"  Virtues !  oh  !  Mary,  he  is  a  traitor  to  his  friend  j  what 
reliance  is  there  on  those  virtues,  which,  having  no  root  in  the 
heart,  are  swept  away  by  the  first  storm  of  passion  ?" 

"  Passion  may  enter  the  purest  heart,"  answered  Mary ; 
"guilt  consists  in  yielding  to  its  influence.  I  would  pledge 
my  life  that  Clarence  would  never  give  himself  up  to  the  in 
fluence  of  a  guilty  passion." 

"  Talk  not  of  him,  let  me  forget  his  existence,  if  I  can ;  I 
think  of  one,  who  will  return  from  his  long  exile,  only  to  find 
his  hopes  deceived,  his  confidence  betrayed,  his  heart  broken." 

Here  Augusta  wept  in  such  anguish,  that  Mary,  finding  it 
in  vain  to  console  her,  threw  her  arms  around  her,  and  wept 
in  sympathy;  yet  still  she  smiled  through  her  tears,  and  again 
and  again  repeated  to  her,  that  heaven  had  long  years  of  hap 
piness  yet  in  store. 

Augusta,  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  chamber,  recovered  an 
appearance  of  outward  composure,  but  there  was  a  deadly 
sickness  in  her  soul,  that  seemed  to  her  like  a  foretaste  of 
mortality.  The  slightest  sound  made  her  tremble,  and  when 
Mary  returned  to  her,  softly,  but  hurriedly,  and  told  her  he 
father  wished  to  see  her,  she  went  to  him,  with  a  blanched 
cheek  and  trembling  step,  like  a  criminal  who  is  about  to 
hear  her  sentence  of  doom. 

"  I  have  something  to  communicate  to  you,"  said  he,  kindly 
taking  ker  hana,  and  leading  her  to  a  seat.  "  But  I  tear  you 
will  be  too  inuch  agitated." 


38  LOYE   AFTER    MARRIAGE. 

"Is  he  come?"  cried  she,  grasping  his  arm  with  sudden 
energy;  "  only  tell  me,  is  he  come?" 

"  Your  husband  is  arrived ;  I  have  just  received  tidings 
that  he  is  in  the  city,  and  will  shortly  be  here." 

Augusta  gasped  for  breath,  she  pressed  her  hands  on  her 
bosom,  there  was  such  a  cold,  intolerable  weight  there;  she 
*elt  the  letter  of  her  husband,  which  she  had  constantly  woru 
s  a  talisman  against  the  evil  she  most  dreaded.  That  tender, 
confiding  letter,  which,  when  she  had  first  received  it,  she  had 
hailed  as  the  precursor  of  the  purest  felicity. 

"  It  is  all  over  now,"  sighed  she,  unconscious  of  the  pre 
sence  of  Mr.  Manning.  "  Poor  unhappy  Allison,  I  will  tell 
him  all,  and  then  I  will  lie  down  and  die." 

"  I  hear  a  carriage  approaching,"  said  Mr.  Manning ;  "  the 
gate  opens — support  yourself,  my  dear  child,  and  give  him  the 
welcome  he  merits."  Augusta  could  not  move,  her  limbs 
were  powerless,  but  perception  and  sensibility  remained ;  she 
saw  Mr.  Manning  leave  the  room,  heard  steps  and  voices  in 
the  passage,  and  then  the  door  reopen.  The  shades  of  twilight 
were  beginning  to  fall,  and  a  mist  was  over  her  eyes,  but  she 
distinctly  recognised  the  figure  that  entered — what  was  her 
astonishment,  to  behold,  instead  of  the  lank  form,  bald  brows, 
and  green  shade,  marked  in  such  indelible  characters  on  her 
memory — the  graceful  lineaments,  clustering  looks,  and  lus 
trous  eyes  of  Clarence?  She  looked  beyond  in  wild  alarm 
for  her  husband.  "Leave  me,"  she  exclaimed,  "leave  me, 
or  you  drive  me  to  desperation  !" 

But  Clarence  eagerly  approached  her,  as  if  defying  all  con 
sequences,  and  reckless  of  her  resentment.  He  clasped  her 
in  his  arras,  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and  imprinted  on  her 
brow,  cheek,  and  lips,  unnumbered  kisses.  "  My  bride,  my 
wife,  my  own  beloved  Augusta,  do  you  not  know  me  ?  and 
can  you  forgive  me  for  this  trial  of  your  love  ?  I  did  not  mean 
to  cause  you  so  much  suffering,  but  I  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  proving  whether  your  love  was  mine,  through 
duty  or  inclination.  I  have  been  the  rival  of  myself,  and  I 
have  exulted  in  finding,  that  love  in  all  its  strength  has  still 
oeen  mastered  by  duty.  Augusta,  I  glory  in  my  wife." 

Augusta  looked  up,  in  bewildered  rapture,  hardly  knowing 
in  what  world  she  existed.  She  had  never  dreamed  of  such  a 
transformation.  Even  now  it  seemed  incredible — it  could  not 
be  true — her  present  felicity  was  too  great  to  be  real — "  Can 
Allison  and  Clarence  be  one  ?" 


LOVE  AFTER   MARRIAGE.  39 

"Yes,  my  Augusta,  these  arms  have  a  right  to  enfold  thee, 
or  they  would  not  clasp  you  thus.  No  miracle  has  been 
wrought,  but  the  skeleton  is  reclothed  with  flesh,  the  locks  of 
youth  have  been  renewed,  the  tide  of  health  has  flowed  back 
again  into  the  wasted  veins,  lending  a  glow  to  the  wan  cheek, 
and  a  brightness  to  the  dim  eye ;  and  more  than  all,  the  worn 
,nd  feeble  spirit,  always  sympathizing  with  its  frail  companion, 
as  replumed  its  drooping  wings,  and  been  soaring  in  regions 
.f  hope,  and  joy,  and  love." 

Without  speaking  metaphorically,  Augusta's  heart  actually 
ached  with  its  excess  of  happiness. 

"  I  have  not  room  here,"  she  cried,  "  for  such  fulness  of 
joy,"  again  laying  her  hand  where  that  precious  letter  was  de 
posited,  but  with  such  different  emotions.  "  My  friends  must 
participate  in  my  happiness,  it  is  selfish  to  withhold  it  from 
them  so  long." 

"  They  know  it  already,"  said  Allison,  smiling;  "they  have 
known  my  secret  from  the  first,  and  assisted  me  in  concealing 
my  identity." 

Augusta  now  understood  Mary's  apparent  inconsistency, 
and  vindicated  her  from  all  unkindness  and  wilful  palliation 
of  guilt.  "  I  am  not  quite  an  impostor,"  continued  her  hus 
band,  "  for  my  name  is  Sydney  Clarence  Allison — and  let  me 
still  wear  the  appellation  you  have  learned  to  love.  It  was 
my  uncle's,  and  he  left  a  condition  in  his  will  that  I  should 
assume  it  as  my  own.  I  find  myself,  too,  the  heir  of  sufficient 
wealth  to  be  almost  a  burden ;  for  my  uncle,  romantic  to  the 
last,  only  caused  the  report  of  the  failure  of  his  wealth,  that 
I  might  prove  the  sincerity  of  your  father's  friendship.  My 
wife,  my  own  Augusta,  is  not  his  blessing  resting  on  us  now  ?" 

Mr.  Manning  and  his  daughter  sympathized  largely  in  the 
happiness  of  their  friends.  Their  only  sorrow  was  the  ap 
proaching  separation.  Mary,  whose  disposition  was  naturally 
serious,  was  exalted  on  this  occasion  to  an  unwonted  vein  of 
humour.  When  she  saw  Augusta's  eyes  turning  with  fond 
admiration  towards  her  husbaud,  she  whispered  in  her  ear — • 
"  Is  it  possible,  that  bald,  yellow,  horrid-looking  creature  is 
your  husband  ?  I  would  not  marry  him,  unless  I  were  dragged 
to  the  altar." 

And  Allison,  passing  his  hand  over  his  luxuriant  hair,  re 
minded  her,  with  a  smile,  of  the  subscription  and  the  wig. 


THE 

VICTIM  OF  EXCITEMENT. 


INTEMPERANCE  is  a  vice  which  is  generally  considered  of 
the  masculine  sex.  In  the  pictured  scenes  of  the  ravages  it 
has  wrought  woman  is  seldom  introduced  but  as  the  patient 
victim  of  brutality,  or  as  the  admonishing  angel  of  transgress 
ing  man.  There  are  instances  on  record,  however,  of  a  sad 
reverse.  Not  alone  in  the  lower  classes  of  life,  amid  the 
dregs  of  society,  but  in  higher  walks,  where  intelligence,  wit, 
beauty,  and  wealth,  virgin  worth,  wedded  love,  and  Christian 
grace,  are  all  cast  as  unvalued  offerings  at  the  beastly  shrine 
of  intemperance.  One  of  these  fatal  examples  (of  which,  to 
the  honour  of  our  sex  be  it  said,  there  are  so  few)  once  .came 
under  the  observation  of  the  writer.  Her  character  and  history 
form  the  subject  of  the  following  sketch. 

Mr.  Manly  first  met  Anne  Weston  in  a  ball-room.  It  was  on 
the  evening  of  the  Fourth  of  July,  and  the  fairest  ladies  of  the 
country  were  assembled  to  celebrate  the  national  jubilee.  He 
was  a  lawyer,  and  had  been  the  orator  of  the  day;  an  eloquent 
one,  and  therefore  entitled  to  distinguished  attention.  He  came 
from  an  adjoining  town,  of  which  he  had  recently  become  an 
inhabitant,  and  now  found  himself  in  a  scene  which  scarcely 
presented  one  familiar  countenance.  He  was  a  very  proud 
man,  and  had  the  air  of  one  who  felt  himself  too  superior  to 
the  multitude  to  mingle  in  the  general  amusement.  He  stood 
with  folded  arms,  as  remote  as  possible  from  the  dancers 
despising  those  who  were  engaged  in  that  exercise  on  such  a 
sultry  night.  In  vain  the  obsequious  master  of  ceremonies 
begged  to  introduce  him  to  this  and  that  fair  lady.  He  de- 
40 


THE  VICTIM   OP  EXCITEMENT.  41 

clined  the  honour  with  a  cold  bow,  declaring  his  utter  dis 
inclination  to  dancing.  He  was  told  that  his  disinclination 
would  cease  as  soon  as  Miss  Weston  arrived.  She  was  the 
belle  of  the  place,  the  daughter  of  the  richest  gentleman,  in 
town — had  received  the  most  finished  education,  and  refused 
the  most  splendid  offers.  In  short,  she  was  irresistible,  and 
it  was  predicted  that  he  would  find  her  so.  It  cannot  be 
denied,  that  the  fame  of  this  all-conquering  lady  had  pre- 
viouly  reached  his  ears,  but  unfortunately  he  had  a  detesta 
tion  of  belles,  and  predetermined  to  close  his  eyes,  and  shut 
his  ears,  and  steel  his  heart  against  her  vaunted  attractions. 
He  had  never  yet  sacrificed  his  independence  to  woman.  He 
had  placed  his  standard  of  female  excellence  very  high.  He 
had  seen  no  one  that  reached  its  altitude.  "  No,"  said  he  to 
himself,  "  let  me  live  on  in  singleness  of  heart  and  loneliness 
of  purpose,  all  the  days  of  my  life,  rather  than  unite  myself 
with  one  of  those  vain,  flimsy,  garrulous,  and  superficial  beings 
who  win  the  smiles,  and  fix  the  attention  of  the  many.  I 
despise  a  weak  woman,  I  hate  a  masculine  one,  and  a  pedantic 
one  I  abhor.  I  turn  with  fear  from  the  glittering  belle,  whose 
home  is  the  crowded  hall,  whose  incense  the  homage  of  fools, 
whose  altar  the  shrine  of  fashion.  Can  she  sit  down  contented 
in  the  privacy  of  domestic  love  who  has  lived  on  the  adulation 
of  the  world,  or  be  satisfied  with  the  affection  of  one  true  heart, 
who  has  claimed  as  her  due,  the  vows  of  all  ?  No,  better  the 
fool,  the  pedant,  than  the  belle.  Who  can  find  that  woman, 
whose  price  is  above  rubies  ?  Ah  !  'tis  certain  I  never  shall 
marry."  He  was  aroused  from  these  reflections,  by  a  move 
ment  in  the  hall,  and  he  felt  a  conviction  that  the  vaunted  lady 
was  arrived.  In  spite  of  his  boasted  indifference,  he  could 
not  repress  a  slight  sensation  of  curiosity  to  see  one  who  was 
represented  as  so  transcendent.  But  he  moved  not,  he  did 
not  even  turn  his  eyes  towards  the  spot  where  so  many  were 
clustering.  "  The  late  hour  of  her  arrival,"  said  he,  "  shows 
equal  vanity  and  affectation.  She  evidently  wishes  to  be  con 
spicuous — studies  everything  for  effect."  The  lady  moved 
towards  that  part  of  the  hall  where  he  was  stationed.  She 
held  the  arm  of  one  gentleman,  and  was  followed  by  some 
half-dozen  others.  He  was  compelled  to  gaze  upon  her,  for 
they  passed  so  near,  the  folds  of  her  white  muslin  dress 
fluttered  against  him.  He  was  pleased  to  see  that  she  was 
much  less  beautiful  than  he  had  expected.  He  scarcely  thought 
her  handsome  Her  complexion  was  pale,  even  sallow,  and 


42  THE   VICTIM   OF   EXCITEMENT. 

her  face  wanted  that  soft,  flowing  outline,  which  is  necessary 
to  the  perfection  of  beauty.  He  could  not  but  acknowledge, 
however,  that  her  figure  was  very  fine,  her  motions  graceful, 
and  her  air  spirited  and  intellectual.  "  I  am  glad  she  is  not 
beautiful,"  said  he,  "  for  I  might  have  been  tempted  to  have 
admired  her,  against  my  sober  judgment.  Oppressed  by  the 
r  heat  of  the  apartment,  he  left  the  hall  and  sauntered  for  a 
'4  ong  time  in  the  piazza,  till  a  certain  feeling  of  curiosity,  to 
now  whether  a  lady  whose  bearing  expressed  so  much  pride 
of  soul,  could  be  foolish  enough  to  dance,  led  him  to  return. 
The  first  object  he  beheld,  was  the  figure  of  Miss  Weston, 
moving  ,in  most  harmonious  time,  to  an  exhilarating  air,  her 
countenance  lighted  up  with  an  animation,  a  fire,  that  had  as 
magical  an  effect  upon  her  features,  as  the  morning  sunbeams 
on  the  face  of  nature.  The  deepest  colour  was  glowing  on  her 
cheek, — her  very  soul  was  shining  forth  from  her  darkening 
eyes.  She  danced  with  infinite  spirit,  but  equal  grace.  He 
had  never  witnessed  anything  to  compare  with  it,  not  even  oil 
the  stage.  "  She  dances  entirely  too  well,"  thought  he ;  "  she 
cannot  have  much  intellect,  yet  she  carries  on  a  constant  con 
versation  with  her  partner  through  all  the  mazes  of  the  dance. 
It  must  be  admirable  nonsense,  from  the  broad  smiles  it  elicits. 
I  am  half  resolved  to  be  introduced  and  invite  her  to  dance — 
from  mere  curiosity,  and  to  prove  the  correctness  of  my 
opinion."  He  sought  the  introduction,  became  her  partner 
in  the  dance,  and  certainly  forgot,  while  he  listened  to  her 
"  admirable  nonsense,"  that  she  was  that  object  of  his  detesta 
tion — a  leUe.  Her  conversation  was  sprightly,  unstudied,  and 
original.  She  seemed  more  eager  to  listen  than  to  talk,  more 
willing  to  admire  than  to  be  admired.  She  did  not  tell  him 
that  she  admired  his  oration,  but  she  spoke  warmly  on  the 
subject  of  eloquence,  and  quoted  in  the  happiest  manner,  a 
passage  of  his  own  speech,  one  which  he  himself  judged 
superb.  It  proved  her  to  have  listened  with  deep  attention. 
He  had  never  received  so  delicate  or  gratifying  a  compliment. 
His  vanity  was  touched,  and  his  pride  slumbered.  He  called 
forth  those  powers  of  pleasing,  with  which  he  was  eminently 
endowed,  and  he  began  to  feel  a  dawning  ambition  to  make 
the  conquest  of  a  heart  \vhich  so  many  had  found  indomitable. 
He  admired  the  simplicity  of  her  dress,  its  fitness  and  elegance. 
A  lady's  dress  is  always  indicative  of  her  character.  Then 
her  voice  was  singularly  persuasive  in  its  tones,  it  breathed 
of  feminine  gentleness  and  sensibility,  with  just  enough  spirit 


THE   VICTIM   OF   EXCITEMENT. 


43 


and  independence  for  a  woman.  Mr.  Manly  came  to  these 
wise  conclusions  before  the  end  of  the  first  dance — at  the  ter 
mination  of  the  second,  he  admired  the  depth,  as  well  as  the 
brilliancy  of  her  mind;  and  when  he  bade  her  adieu  for  the 
night,  he  was  equally  convinced  of  the  purity  of  her  feelings 
and  the  goodness  of  her  heart.  Such  is  the  strength  of  man's 
wisdom,  the  stability  of  his  opinions,  the  steadiness  of  his 
purpose,  when  placed  in  competition  with  the  fascinations  of  a 
woman  who  has  made  the  determination  to  please.  In  after 
years  Mr.  Manly  told  a  friend  of  a  dream  which  that  night 
haunted  his  pillow.  He  was  not  superstitious,  or  disposed 
to  attach  the  slighest  importance  to  dreams.  But  this  was  a 
vivid  picture,  and  succeeding  events  caused  him  to  recall  it, 
as  one  having  the  power  of  prophecy.  He  lived  over  agaiu 
the  events  of  the  evening.  The  winning  accents  of  Miss 
Weston  mingled  in  his  ear  with  the  gay  notes  of  the  violin. 
Still,  ever  and  anon,  discordant  sounds  marred  the  sweet  har 
mony.  The  malicious  whisper,  the  stifled,  deriding  laugh,  .ind 
the  open  scoff  came  from  every  corner.  Sometimes  he  ?aw, 
through  the  crowd,  the  slow  finger  of  scorn  pointing  at  him. 
As  he  turned,  with  a  fierce  glance  of  defiance,  Miss  Westoa 
seemed  to  meet  him  still,  holding  a  goblet  in  her  hand,  which 
she  pressed  him  to  drain.  Her  cheeks  and  lips  burned  with  a 
scarlet  radiance,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  unnatural  bright 
ness.  "  Taste  it  not/'  whispered  a  soft  voice  in  his  ear,  "  it 
is  poison."  "  It.  is  the  cup  of  immortality,"  exclaimed  the 
syren,  and  she  drained  the  goblet  to  its  last  drop.  In  a  few 
moments  her  countenance  changed — her  face  became  bloated, 
her  features  disfigured,  and  her  eyes  heavy  and  sunken.  He 
turned  with  disgust  from  the  former  enchantress,  bui  she 
pursued  him,  she  wound  her  arms  around  him.  In  the  vain 
struggle  of  liberating  himself  from  her  embrace,  he  awoke. 
It  was  long  before  he  could  overcome  the  sensation  of  loathing 
and  horror  excited  by  the  unhallowed  vision,  and  even  when, 
overcome  by  heaviness  and  exhaustion,  he  again  slept,  the 
same  bloated  phantom  presented  her  intoxicating  draught. 
The  morning  found  him  feverish  and  unrefreshed.  He  could 
not  shake  off  the  impression  of  his  dream,  and  the  image 
of  Miss  Weston  seemed  deprived  of  the  witchery  that  had 
enthralled  his  imagination  the  preceding  evening.  He  was 
beginning  to  despise  himself,  for  having  yielded  up  so  soon 
his  prejudices  and  pride,  when  an  invitation  to  dine  at  Mr. 
Weston's,  interrupted  the  severe  tenor  of  bis  thoughts.  Polite 


44  THE  VICTIM   OF  EXCITEMENT. 

ness  obliged  him  to  accept,  and  in  the  society  of  Miss  Weston, 
graceful,  animated,  and  intellectual,  presiding  with  unaffected 
dignity  and  ease  at  her  father's  board,  he  forgot  the  hideous 
metamorphose  of  his  dream. 

From  that  day  his  fate  was  sealed.  It  was  the  first  time 
his  heart  had  ever  been  seriously  interested,  and  he  loved 
with  all  the  strength  and  ardour  of  his  proud  and  ardent 
character.  The  triumph,  too,  of  winning  one  whom  so  many 
had  sought  in  vain,  threw  a  kind  of  glory  over  his  conquest, 
and  exalted  his  estimation  of  his  own  attributes.  The  wedding- 
day  was  appointed.  The  evening  previous  to  his  nuptials, 
Anne  Weston  sat  in  her  own  chamber,  with  one  of  the  chosen 
friends  of  her  girlhood,  Emily  Spencer.  Anne  had  no  sisters, 
and  from  childhood,  Emily  had  stood  to  her  almost  in  that  dear 
relation.  She  was  to  accompany  her  to  her  new  home,  for 
Anne  refused  to  be  separated  from  her,  and  had  playfully  told 
Mr.  Manly,  "  that  if  he  married  Tier,  he  must  take  Emily  too, 
for  she  could  not  and  would  not  be  parted  from  her." 

The  thought  of  the  future  occupied  the  minds  of  the  two 
friends.  Anne  sat  in  silence.  The  lamp  that  partially  illu 
mined  the  apartment,  gave  additional  paleness  to  her  pale  and 
spiritual  countenance.  Her  thoughts  appeared  to  have  rolled 
within  herself,  and,  from  the  gloom  of  her  eye,  did  not  appear 
to  be  such  as  usually  rest  in  the  bosom  of  one  about  to  be 
wedded  to  the  object  of  her  affection  and  her  trust. 

"  I  fear,"  said  she  at  length,  as  if  forgetting  the  presence 
of  her  friend,  "  that  I  have  been  too  hasty.  The  very  qualities 
that  won  my  admiration,  and  determined  me  to  fix  his  regard, 
now  cause  me  to  tremble.  I  have  been  too  much  accustomed 
to  self-indulgence,  to  bear  restraint,  and  should  it  ever  be  im 
posed  by  a  master's  hand,  my  rebellious  spirit  would  break 
the  bonds  of  duty,  and  assert  its  independence.  I  fear  I  am 
not  formed  to  be  a  happy  wife,  or  to  constitute  the  happiness 
of  a  husband.  I  live  too  much  upon  excitement,  and  when 
the  deep  monotony  of  domestic  life  steals  on,  what  will  become 
of  me  ?" 

"  How  can  there  be  monotony,"  answered  Emily,  warmly, 
"with  such  a  companion  as  Manly?  Oh,  trust  him,  Anne, 
love  him  as  he  merits  to  be  loved,  as  you  yourself  are  loved, 
and  your  lot  may  be  envied  among  women." 

"  He  has  awakened  all  the  capabilities  my  heart  has  of 
loving,"  cried  Anne,  "  but  I  wish  I  could  shake  off  this  dull 
weight  from  my  spirits."  She  rose  as  she  spoke,  approached 


THE  VICTIM   Or  EXCITEMENT.  45 

a  side  table,  and,  turning  out  a  glass  of  rich  cordial,  drank 
it,  as  if  conscious,  from  experience,  of  its  renovating  influence 
Emily's  anxious  gaze  followed  her  movements.  A  deep  sigh 
escaped  her  lips.  When  her  friend  resumed  her  seat,  she  drew 
nearer  to  her,  she  took  her  hand  in  hers,  and,  while  her  coloui 
heightened,  and  her  hreath  shortened,  she  said — 

"  Anne  Weston,  I  should  not  deserve  the  name  of  friend, 
if  in  this  hour,  the  last,  perhaps,  of  unrestrained  confidenct 
between  us,  I  did  not  dare — " 

"  Dare  what  ?"  interrupted  Anne,  shame  and  resentment 
kindling  in  her  eye. 

"  To  tell  you,  that  the  habit  you  indulge  in,  of  resorting 
to  artificial  means  to  exhilarate  your  spirits,  though  now 
attended  with  no  obvious  danger,  may  exercise  most  fatal 
influence  on  your  future  peace.  I  have  long  struggled  for 
resolution  to  utter  this  startling  truth,  and  I  gather  boldness 
as  I  speak.  By  all  our  friendship  and  sincerity,  by  the  past 
splendour  of  your  reputation,  by  the  bright  hopes  of  the  future, 
by  the  trusting  vows  of  a  lover,  and  the  gray  hairs  of  a  father, 
I  pray  you  to  relinquish  a  habit,  whose  growing  strength  is 
now  only  known  to  me."  Emily  paused,  strong  emotions 
impeded  her  utterance.  "  What  is  it  you  fear?"  asked  Anne, 
in  a  low,  stern  voice ;  "  speak,  for  you  see  that  I  am  calm." 
"  You  know  what  I  dread,"  continued  Emily.  "  I  see  a  speck 
on  the  bright  character  of  my  friend.  It  may  spread  and  dim 
all  its  lustre.  We  all  know  the  fearful  strength  of  habit,  we 
cannot  shake  off  the  serpent  when  once  its  coils  are  around 
us.  Oh,  Anne,  gifted  by  nature  with  such  brilliancy  of  in 
tellect  and  gayety  of  heart,  why  have  you  ever  had  recourse 
to  the  exciting  draught,  as  if  art  could  exalt  the  original  buoy 
ancy  of  your  spirits,  or  care  had  laid  his  blighting  hand  upon 
you  ?" 

"  Forbear,"  cried  Anne,  impetuously,  "  and  hear  me,  before 
you  blast  me  with  your  contempt.  It  was  not  till  bitter  dis- 
apr  ointment  pressed,  crushed  me,  that  I  knew  art  could  reno 
vate  the  languor  of  nature.  Yes,  /,  the  courted  and  admired 
of  all,  was  doomed  to  love  one  whose  affections  I  could  not 
win.  You  knew  him  well,  but  you  never  knew  how  my  in 
effectual  efforts  to  attach  him  maddened  my  pride,  or  how  the 
triumph  of  my  beautiful  rival  goaded  my  feelings.  The 
world  guessed  not  my  secret,  for  still  I  laughed  and  glittered 
with  mocking  splendour,  but  with  such  a  cold  void  within !  I 
could  not  bear  it.  My  unnatural  spirits  failed  me.  I  must 
104 


46  THE  VICTIM   OF  EXCITEMENT. 

still  shine  on,  or  the  secret  of  my  humiliation  be  discovered. 
I  began  in  despair,  but  I  have  accomplished  my  purpose.  And 
now,"  added  she,  "I  have  done.  The  necessity  of  shining 
and  deceiving  is  over.  I  thank  you  for  the  warmth  of  friend 
ship  that  suggested  your  admonition.  But,  indeed,  Emily, 
your  apprehensions  are  exaggerated.  I  have  a  restraining 
power  within  me  that  must  always  save  me  from  degradation. 
Habit,  alone,  makes  slaves  of  the  weak ;  it  becomes  the  slave 
of  the  strong  in  mind.  I  know  what's  due  to  Manly.  He 
never  shall  blush  for  his  choice  in  a  wife." 

She  began  with  vehemence  and  ended  with  deliberation. 
There  was  something  in  the  cold  composure  of  her  manner 
that  forbid  a  renewal  of  the  subject.  Emily  felt  that  she  had 
fulfilled  her  duty  as  a  friend,  and  delicacy  commanded  her  to 
forbear  a  renewal  of  her  admonitions.  Force  of  feeling  had 
betrayed  her  into  a  warmth  of  expression  she  now  regretted. 
She  loved  Anne,  but  she  looked  with  many  misgivings  to  being 
the  sharer  of  her  wedded  home.  She  had  deeply  studied  the 
character  of  Manly,  and  trembled  to  think  of  the  reaction  that 
might  one  day  take  place  in  his  mind,  should  he  ever  discover 
the  dark  spot  on  the  disk  of  his  sun — of  his  destiny.  Though 
she  had  told  Anne  that  the  secret  of  her  growing  love  for  the 
exciting  draught  was  known  only  to  herself,  it  was  whispered 
among  the  servants,  suspected  by  a  few  discreet  individuals, 
and  had  been  several  times  hinted  in  a  private  circle  of 
friends.  It  had  never  yet  reached  the  ears  of  Manly,  for 
there  was  something  in  his  demeanour  that  repelled  the  most 
distant  approach  to  familiarity.  He  married  with  the  most 
romantic  and  enthusiastic  ideas  of  domestic  felicity.  Were 
those  bright  visions  of  bliss  realized?  Time,  the  great  dis- 
enchanter,  alone  could  answer. 


It  was  about  five  years  after  the  scenes  we  have  recorded, 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Manly  took  up  their  residence  in  the  town 

of  G- .     Usually,  when  strangers  are  about  to  become 

inhabitants  of  a  new  place,  there  is  some  annunciation  of  their 
arrival;  but  they  came,  without  any  previous  intimation  being 
given  for  the  speculation  of  the  curious,  or  bringing  any 
letters  of  introduction  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  proud.  They 
hired  an  elegant  house,  furnished  it  rich  and  fashionably,  and 
evidently  prepared  for  the  socialities  of  life,  as  enjoyed  in  the 
highest  circles.  The  appearance  of  wealth  always  commands 


THE   VICTIM   OP  EXCITEMENT.  47 

the  respect  of  the  many,  and  this  respect  was  heightened  by 
their  personal  claims  to  admiration.  Five  years,  however, 
had  wrought  a  change  in  both,  not  from  the  fading  touch  of 
time,  for  they  were  not  of  an  age  when  the  green  leaf  begins 
to  grow  sere,  but  other  causes  were  operating  with  a  power 
as  silent  and  unpausing.  The  fine,  intelligent  face  of  Mrs. 
Manly  had  lost  much  of  its  delicacy  of  outline,  and  her  cheek, 
that  formerly  was  pale  or  roseate  as  sensibility  or  enthusiasm 
ruled  the  hour,  now  wore  a  stationary  glow,  deeper  than  the 
blush  of  feminine  modesty,  less  bright  than  the  carnation  of 
health.  The  unrivalled  beauty  of  her  figure  had  given  place 
to  grosser  lineaments,  over  which,  however,  grace  and  dignity 
still  lingered,  as  if  unwilling  to  leave  a  shrine  so  worshipped. 
Mr.  Manly's  majestic  person  was  invested  with  an  air  of  deeper 
haughtiness,  and  his  dark  brow  was  contracted  into  an  expres 
sion  of  prevailing  gloom  and  austerity.  Two  lovely  children, 
one  almost  an  infant,  who  were  carried  abroad  every  fair  day 
by  their  nurse,  shared  the  attention  their  parents  excited ;  and 
many  appealed  to  her  for  information  respecting  the  strangers. 
She  was  unable  to  satisfy  their  curiosity,  as  she  had  been  a 
member  of  their  household  but  a  short  time,  her  services 
having  been  hired  while  journeying  to  the  place.  The  other 
servants  were  hired  after  their  arrival.  Thus,  one  of  the  most 
fruitful  sources  from  which  the  inquisitive  derive  their  aliment, 

was  denied  to  the  inhabitants  of  Gr .     It  was  not  long 

before  the  house  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Manly  was  frequented  by 
those  whose  society  she  most  wished  to  cultivate.  The  suavity 
of  her  manners,  the  vivacity  of  her  conversation,  her  p  >litc- 
ness  and  disinterestedness,  captivated  the  hearts  of  all.  Mr. 
Manly  too  received  his  guests  with  a  cordiality  that  surprised, 
while  it  gratified.  Awed  by  the  external  dignity  of  his  de 
portment,  they  expected  to  be  repulsed,  rather  than  welcomed, 
but  it  was  universally  acknowledged,  that  no  man  could  be 
more  delightful  than  Mr.  Manly,  when  he  chose  to  unbend. 
As  a  lawyer,  his  fame  soon  rose.  His  integrity  and  eloquenc 
became  the  theme  of  every  tongue.  Amidst  all  the  admiratioi 
they  excited,  there  were  some  dark  surmises.  The  malicious, 
the  censorious,  the  evil-disposed  are  found  in  every  circle,  and 
in  every  land.  It  was  noticed  that  Mr.  Manly  watched  his 
wife  with  painful  scrutiny,  that  she  seemed  uneasy  whenever 
his  glance  met  hers,  that  her  manner  was  at  times  hurried  and 
disturbed,  as  if  some  secret  cause  of  sorrow  preyed  upon  her 
mind.  It  was  settled  in  the  opinion  of  many,  that  Mr.  Manly 


%8  THE   VICTIM   OP  EXCITEMENT. 

Was  a  domestic  tyrant,  and  that  his  wife  was  the  meek  victim 
of  this  despotism.  Some  suggested  that  he  had  been  convicted 
of  crime,  and  had  fled  from  the  pursuit  of  justice,  while  his 
devoted  wife  refused  to  separate  her  destiny  from  his.  They 
gave  a  large  and  elegant  party.  The  entertainment  was 
superior  to  anything  witnessed  before  in  the  precincts  of 
Gr .  The  graceful  hostess,  dressed  in  unwonted  splen 
dour,  moved  through  her  drawing-rooms,  with  the  step  of  one 
accustomed  to  the  homage  of  crowds,  yet  her  smiles  sought 
out  the  most  undistinguished  of  her  guests,  and  the  most 
diffident  gathered  confidence  from  her  condescending  regards. 
St'ill  the  eye  of  Mr.  Manly  followed  her  with  that  anxious, 
mysterious  glance,  and  her  hurried  movements  often  betrayed 
inexplicable  perturbation.  In  the  course  of  the  evening,  a 
gentleman  refused  wine,  on  the  plea  of  belonging  to  the  Tem 
perance  Society.  Many  voices  were  lifted  in  condemnation 
against  him,  for  excluding  one  of  the  gladdeners  of  existence, 
what,  the  Scriptures  themselves  recommended,  and  the  Saviour 
of  men  had  consecrated  by  a  miracle.  The  subject  grew  in 
teresting,  the  circle  narrowed  round  the  advocate  of  Temper 
ance,  and  many  were  pressing  eagerly  forward  to  listen  to  the 
debate.  The  opinion  of  Mrs.  Manly  was  demanded.  She 
drew  back  at  first,  as  if  unwilling  to  take  the  lead  of  her 
guests.  At  length  she  seemed  warmed  by  the  subject,  and 
painted  the  evils  of  intemperance  in  the  strongest  and  most 
appalling  colours.  She  painted  woman  as  its  victim,  till  every 
heart  recoiled  at  the  image  she  drew.  So  forcible  was  her  lan 
guage,  so  impressive  her  gestures,  so  unaffecte'd  her  emotions, 
every  eye  was  riveted,  and  every  ear  bent  on  the  eloquent 
mourner  of  her  sex's  degradation.  She  paused,  oppressed  by 
the  notice  she  attracted,  and  moved  from  the  circle,  that 
widened  for  her  as  she  passed,  and  gazed  after  her,  with  as 
much  respect  as  if  she  were  an  Empress.  During  this  spon 
taneous  burst  of  oratory,  Mr.  Manly  remained  aloof,  but  those 
•vho  had  marked  him  in  their  minds  as  the  harsh  domestic 
yrant,  were  now  confirmed  in  their  belief.  Instead  of  admir- 
11  g  the  wonderful  talents  of  his  wife,  or  sympathizing  in  the 
applause  she  excited,  a  gloom  thick  as  night  lowered  upon  his 
brow,  his  face  actually  grew  of  a  livid  paleness,  till  at  last,  as 
if  unable  to  control  his  temper,  he  left  the  drawing-room. 

"Poor  Mrs.  Manly,"  said  one,  "how  much  is  her  destiny  to 
be  lamented !     To  be  united  to  a  man  who  is  incapable  of 


THE  'VICTIM   OF  EXCITEMENT.  49 

appreciating  her  genius,  and  even  seems  guilty  of  the  mean 
ness  of  annoying  her." 

Thus  the  world  judges ;  and  had  the  tortured  heart  of 
Manly  known  the  sentence  that  was  passing  upon  him,  he 
would  have  rejoiced  that  the  shaft  was  directed  to  his  bosom, 
rather  than  hers,  which  he  would  fain  shield  from  the  proud 
man's  contumely,  though  it  might  never  more  be  the  resting- 
lace  of  love  and  confidence.  Is  it  necessary  to  go  back  and 
elate  the  history  of  those  years  which  had  elapsed  since  Anne 
Weston  was  presented  to  the  reader  as  a  triumphant  belle,  and 
plighted  bride  !  Is  it  not  already  seen  that  the  dark  speck 
had  enlarged,  throwing  into  gradual,  but  deepening  shade,  .the 
soul's  original  brightness,  obscuring  the  sunshine  of  domestic 
joy,  converting  the  home  of  love  into  a  prison-house  of 
shame,  and  blighting,  chilling,  palsying  the  loftiest  energies 
and  noblest  purposes  ?  The  warning  accents  of  Emily  Spencer 
were  breathed  in  vain.  That  fatal  habit  had  already  become 
a  passion — a  passion  which,  like  the  rising  tide,  grows  deeper 
and  higher,  rolling  onward  and  onward,  till  the  landmarks  of 
reason,  and  honour,  and  principle,  are  swept  over  by  its  waves 
— a  fidej;hat  ebbs  not  but  with  ebbing  life.  She  had  looked 
"  upc#r the  wine  when  it  was  red,  when  it  gave  its  colour  to 
the  cup,"  till  she  found,  by  fatal  experience,  that  it  biteth  like 
a  serpent,  and  stingeth  like  an  adder.  It  were  vain  to  attempt 
a  description  of  the  feelings  of  Manly  when  he  first  discovered 
the  idol  of  his  imagination  under  an  influence  that,  in  his 
opinion,  brutalized  a  man.  But  a  woman  ! — and  that  woman 
— his  wife  !  *Iii  the  agony,  the  madness  of  the  moment,  he 
could  have  lifted  the  hand  of  suicide,  but  Emily  Spencer 
hovered  near  and  held  him  back  from  the  brink  to  which  he 
was  rushing.  She  pleaded  the  cause  of  her  unhappy  friend, 
she  prayed  him  not  to  cast  her  off.  She  dwelt  on  the  bright 
and  sparkling  mind,  the  warm,  impulsive  heart  that  might  yet 
be  saved  from  utter  degradation  by  his  exerted  influence.  She 
pledged  herself  to  labour  for  him,  and  with  him,  and  faithfully 
did  she  redeem  her  pledge.  After  the  first  terrible  shock, 
Munly's  passionate  emotion  settled  down  into  a  misanthropic 
gloom.  Sometimes  when  he  witnessed  the  remorse  which 
followed  such  self-abandonment,  the  grace  and  beauty  with 
which  she  would  emerge  from  the  disfiguring  cloud,  and  the 
strong  efforts  she  would  make  to  reinstate  herself  in  his  esti 
mation,  a  ray  of  brightness  would  shine  in  on  his  mind,  and 
"•he  would  try  to  think  of  the  past  as  a  frightful  dream.  Then 


60  THE  VICTIM  OF  EXCITEMENT. 

his  prophetic  dream  would  return  to  him,  and  he  shuddered 
at  its  confirmation — once  it  seemed  as  if  the  demon  had  with 
drawn  its  unhallowed  presence,  unable  to  exist  in  the  holy 
atmosphere  that  surrounds  a  mother's  bosom. 

For  a  long  time  the  burning  essence  was  not  permitted  to 
mingle  with  the  fountain  of  maternal  tenderness.  Even 
Manly's  blasted  spirit  revived,  and  Emily  hoped  all,  and 
believed  all.  But  Anne  had  once  passed  the  Rubicon,  and 
though  she  often  paused  and  looked  back  with  yearnings  that 
could  not  be  uttered,  upon  the  fair  bounds  she  had  left,  the 
very  poignancy  of  her  shame  goaded  her  on,  though  every 
step  she  took,  evidenced  the  shame  that  was  separating  her 
from  the  affections  of  a  husband  whom  she  loved  and  respected, 
and  who  had  once  idolized  her.  It  has  been  said  that  when 
woman  once  becomes  a  transgressor,  her  rapid  progress  in  sin 
mocks  the  speed  of  man.  As  the  glacier,  that  has  long  shone 
in  dazzling  purity,  when  loosened  from  its  mountain  stay, 
rushes  down  with  a  velocity  accelerated  by  its  impenetrability 
and  coldness,  when  any  shameful  passion  has  melted  the  virgin 
snow  of  a  woman's  character,  a  moral  avalanche  ensues,  de 
stroying  "  whatsoever  is  venerable  and  lovely,  and  of  good 
report." 

Manly  occasionally  sought  to  conceal  from  the  world  the 
fatal  propensities  of  his  wife.  She  had  occupied  too  con 
spicuous  a  station  in  society — she  had  been  too  highly  exalted 
— to  humble  herself  with  impunity.  Her  father,  whose  lavish 
indulgence  probably  paved  the  way  to  her  ruin,  was  unable  to 
bear  himself  up  under  the  weight  of  mortification  and  grief 
thus  unexpectedly  brought  upon  him.  His  constitution  had 
long  been  feeble  j  and  now  the  bowl  was,  indeed,  broken  at 
the  fountain.  The  nlial  hand  which  he  once  hoped  would 
have  scattered  roses  on  his  dying  pillow,  struck  the  death 
blow.  Physicians  talked  of  a  chronic  disease ;  of  the  gradual 
decay  of  nature ;  but  Anne's  conscience  told  her  she  had 
winged  the  dart.  The  agony  of  her  remorse  seemed  a  fore 
taste  of  the  quenchless  fire,  and  the  undying  worm.  She 
made  the  most  solemn  promises  of  reformation — vowed  never 
again  to  taste  the  poisonous  liquor.  She  threw  herself  on  the 
forgiveness  of  her  husband,  and  prayed  him  to  remove  her 
where  her  name  was  never  breathed ;  that  she  might  begin 
jfe  anew,  and  establish  for  their  children  an  unblemished 
reputation.  On  the  faith  of  these  ardent  resolutions,  Mauly 
broke  his  connexion  with  every  former  friend — sold  all  his 


THE   VICTIM   OF  EXCITEMENT.  51 

possessions,  and  sought  a  new  home,  in  a  place  fnr  removed 
from  the  scene  of  their  present  unhappiness.  Circumstances 
in  her  own  family  prevented  Emily  Spencer  from  accompany 
ing  them,  but  she  was  to  follow  them  the  earliest  opportunity, 
hoping  miracles  from  the  change.  • 

Mrs  Manly,  from  the  death  of  her  father,  came  into  the 
possession  of  a  large  and  independent  fortune.  She  was  not 
sordid  enough  to  deem  money  an  equivalent  for  a  wounded  A 
reputation ;  but  it  was  soothing  to  her  pride,  to  be  able  to  fill 
her  husband's  coffers  so  richly,  and  to  fit  up  their  new  estab 
lishment  in  a  style  so  magnificent.  Manly  allowed  her  to 
exercise  her  own  taste  in  everything.  He  knew  the  effect  of 
external  pomp,  and  thought  it  was  well  to  dazzle  the  judg 
ment  of  the  world.  He  was  determined  to  seek  society ;  to 
open  every  source  of  gratification  and  rational  excitement  to 
his  wife,  to  save  her  from  monotony  and  solitude.  His  whole 
aim  seemed  to  be,  "  that  she  might  not  be  led  into  tempta 
tion."  If  with  all  these  cares  for  her  safety,  he  could  have 
blended  the  tenderness  that  once  softened  his  proud  manners, 
could  he  have  banished  from  his  once  beaming  eye  the  look 
of  vigilance  and  distrust ;  could  she  have  felt  herself  once 
more  enthroned  in  his  heart,  gratitude  might,  perhaps,  have 
completed  the  regeneration  begun  by  remorse.  But  Anne 
felt  that  she  was  an  object  of  cbfcstant  suspicion  and  fear;  she 
felt  that  he  had  not  faith  in  her  good  resolutions.  She  was  no 
longer  the  sharer  of  his  counsels — the  inspirer  of  his  hopes — • 
or  the  companion  in  whom  his  soul  delighted.  His  ruling 
passion  supported  him  in  society ;  but  in  those  hours  when 
they  were  necessarily  thrown  upon  each  other's  resources,  he 
was  accustomed  to  sit  in  gloomy  abstraction,  brooding  over 
his  own  melancholy  thoughts.  Anne  was  only  too  conscious 
of  the  subject  of  these  reveries,  and  it  kept  alive  a  painful 
sense  of  her  humiliation.  She  had,  hitherto,  kept  her  promise 
sncred,  through  struggles  known  only  to  herself,  and  she  began 
to  feel  impatient  and  indignant  that  the  reward  for  which  she 
looked  was  still  withheld.  Had  she  been  more  deeply  skilled 
in  the  mysteries  of  the  human  heart,  she  might  have  addressed 
the  Genius  of  the  household  shrine,  in  the  language  of  the 
avenging  Moor,  who  first  apostrophizes  the  torch  that  flares 
on  his  deed  of  darkness  : 

"  If  I  quench  thee,  thou  flaming  minister, 
I  can  again  thy  former  light  restore^ 


52  THE  VICTIM   OP  EXCITEMENT. 

Should  I  repent  me — but  once  put  out  thine, 
I  know  not  where  is  the  Promethean  heat 
That  can  thy  light  relume." 

Mr.  Manly  was  called  away  by  professional  business,  wbicti 
•would  probably  detain  him  many  weeks  from  home.  He 
regretted  this  necessity ;  particularly  before  the  arrival  of 
^uiily,  whose  coming  was  daily  expected.  He  urged  his  wife 
o  invite  some  friends  to  remain  as  her  guests  during  his 
bsence,  to  enliven  her  solitude.  His  request,  so  earnestly 
repeated,  might  have  been  gratifying  to  her  feelings,  if  she 
had  not  known  the  distrust  of  her  faith  and  strength  of  reso 
lution  it  implied.  The  last  words  he  said  to  her,  at  parting, 
were,  "Remember,  Anne,  everything  depends  on  yourself." 
She  experienced  a  sensation  of  unspeakable  relief  in  his  ab 
sence.  The  eagle  glance  was  withdrawn  from  her  soul,  and 
it  expanded  and  exulted  in  its  newly  acquired  freedom.  She 
had  a  constant  succession  of  visitors,  who,  remarking  the  elas 
ticity  of  her  spirits,  failed  not  to  cast  additional  obloquy  on 
Mr.  Manly  r  for  the  tyranny  he  evidently  exercised  over  his 
wife.  Emily  did  not  arrive,  and  Mrs.  Manly  could  not  regret 
the  delay.  Her  presence  reminded  her  of  all  she  wished  to 
forget;  for  her  days  of  triumph  were  returned,  and  the  desire 
of  shining  rekindled  from  the  ashes  of  scorn,  that  had  for  a 
while  smothered  the  flame. 

It  wanted  about  a  week  of  Mr.  Manly's  return.  She  felt  a 
strong  inclination  to  renew  the  splendours  of  her  party.  She 
had  received  so  many  compliments  on  the  subject : — "  Mrs. 
Manly's  delightful  party  !"  "  Her  conversational  powers  !" 
"  Such  a  literary  banquet !"  &c.  Invitations  were  given  and 
accepted.  The  morning  of  the  day,  which  was  somewhat 
warm  and  oppressive,  she  was  summoned  by  the  kitchen 
council,  where  the  business  of  preparation  was  going  on. 
Suddenly,  however,  they  came  to  a  stand.  There  was  no 
brandy  to  give  flavour  to  the  cake ;  and  the  cook  declared  it 
was  impossible  to  make  it  without,  or  to  use  anything  as  a 
substitute. 

Mrs.  Manly's  cheeks  flushed  high  with  shame.  Her  hus 
band  had  retained  the  key  of  the  closet  that  contained  the  for 
bidden  article.  He  was  afraid  to  trust  it  in  her  keeping.  The 
mildest  cordials  were  alone  left  at  her  disposal,  for  the  enter 
tainment  of  her  guests.  What  would  her  husband  think  if  she 
purchased,  in  his  absence,  what  he  had  himself  secreted  from. 
her  ?  What  would  the  servants  believe  if  she  refused  to  pro- 


THE   VICTIM   OF   EXCITEMENT.  53 

vide  them  with  what  was  deemed  indispensable  ?  The  fear  of 
her  secret  being  detected,  combined  with  resentment  at  her 
husband's  unyielding  distrust,  decided  her  conduct.  She 
bought — she  tasted.  The  cook  asserted  there  was  something 
peculiar  in  its  flavour,  and  asked  her  to  judge  for  herself. 
Would  it  not  excite  suspicion,  if  she  refused?  She  broke  her 
solemn  vow — she  tasted — and  was  undone.  The  burning 
thirst  once  kindled,  in  those  who  have  been  victims  to  this 
fatal  passion,  it  rages  with  the  strength  of  madness.  In  the 
secrecy  of  the  closet  where  she  hid  the  poison,  she  yielded  to 
the  tempter,  who  whispered,  that,  as  she  had  been  compelled 
to  taste,  her  promise  had  been  innocently  broken :  there  could 
be  no  harm  in  a  little  more — the  last  that  should  ever  pass 
her  lips.  In  the  delirium  of  the  moment,  she  yielded,  till,  in 
capable  of  self-control,  she  continued  the  inebriating  draught. 
Judgment — reason — at  length,  perception,  vanished.  The 
approach  of  evening  found  her  still  prostrate  on  her  bed,  a 
melancholy  instance  of  the  futility  of  the  best  human  resolu 
tions,  unsupported  by  the  divine  principle  of  religion.  The 
servants  were  at  first  struck  with  consternation.  They  thought 
some  sudden  disease  had  overtaken  her.  But  the  marks  of 
intemperance,  that,  like  the  brand  on  the  brow  of  Cain,  single 
out  its  votaries  from  the  rest  of  mankind,  those  revolting  traces, 
were  but  too  visible.  They  knew  not  what  to  do.  Uncertain 
what  guests  were  invited,  they  could  not  send  apologies,  nor 
ask  them  to  defer  their  visit.  The  shades  of  evening  were 
beginning  to  fall;  the  children  were  crying,  deprived  of  the 
usual  cares  of  their  nurse ;  and  in  the  general  bustle,  clung 
to  their  mother,  whose  ear  was  deaf  to  the  appeal  of  nature. 
The  little  one,  weary  of  shedding  so  many  unavailing  tears,  at 
last  crawled  up  on  the  bed,  and  fell  asleep  by  her  side,  though 
there  was  scarcely  room  for  her  to  stretch  her  little  limbs, 
where  she  had  found  the  means  of  climbing.  As  her  slumbers 
deepened,  her  limbs  relaxed  from  the  rigid  posture  they  had 
assumed :  her  arms  dropped  unconsciously  over  the  bed,  and 
she  fell.  In  her  fall  she  was  thrown  against  one  of  the  posts, 
and  a  sharp  corner  cutting  her  head,  inflicted  a  deep  wound. 
The  screams  of  the  little  sufferer  roused  the  household,  and 
pierced  even  the  leaden  slumbers  of  intemperance.  It  was 
long,  however,  before  Mrs.  Manly  came  to  a  clear  perception 
of  what  was  passing  around  her.  The  sight  of  the  streaming 
blood,  however,  acted  like  a  shock  of  electricity.  She  sprang 
up,  and  endeavoured  to  stanch  the  bleeding  wound.  The  effu- 


54  THE  VICTIM   OP  EXCITEMENT. 

sion  was  soon  stopped ;  the  child  sunk  into  a  peaceful  sleep, 
and  the  alarm  subsided. 

Children  are  liable  to  so  many  falls,  and  bruises,  and  wounds, 
it  is  not  strange  that  Mrs.  Manly,  in  the  confused  state  of  her 
mind,  should  soon  forget  the  accident,  and  try  to  prepare  her 
self  for  the  reception  of  her  guests,  who  were  already  assem 
bling  in  the  drawing-room.  Every  time  the  bell  rung,  she 
tarted,  with  a  thrill  of  horror,  conscious  how  unfit  she  was 
o  sustain  the  enviable  reputation  she  had  acquired.  Her 
head  ached  almost  to  bursting,  her  hands  trembled,  and  a 
deadly  sickness  oppressed  her.  The  visions  of  an  upbraiding 
husband,  a  scoffing  world,  rose  before  her — and  dim,  but 
awful,  in  the  dark  perspective,  she  seemed  to  behold  the 
shadow  of  a  sin-avenging  Deity.  Another  ring — the  guests 
were  thronging.  Unhappy  woman  !  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
She  would  have  pleaded  sudden  indisposition — the  accident 
of  her  child — but  the  fear  that  the  servants  would  reveal  the 
truth — the  hope  of  being  able  to  rally  her  spirits — determined 
her  to  descend  into  the  drawing-room.  As  she  cast  a  last 
hurried  glance  into  the  mirror,  and  saw  the  wild,  haggard 
countenance  it  reflected,  she  recoiled  at  her  own  image.  The 
jewels  with  which  she  had  profusely  adorned  herself,  served 
but  to  mock  the  ravages  the  destroying  scourge  had  made 
upon  her  beauty.  No  cosmetic  art  could  restore  the  purity 
of  her  complexion ;  nor  the  costliest  perfumes  conceal  the 
odour  of  the  fiery  liquor.  She  called  for  a  glass  of  cordial — 
kindled  up  a  smile  of  welcome,  and  descended  to  perform  the 
honours  of  her  household.  She  made  a  thousand  apologies 
for  her  delay ;  related,  in  glowing  colours,  the  accident  that 
happened  to  her  child,  and  flew  from  one  subject  to  another, 
as  if  she  feared  to  trust  herself  with  a  pause.  There  was 
something  so  unnatural  in  her  countenance,  so  overstrained  in 
her  manner,  and  so  extravagant  in  her  conversation,  it  was 
impossible  for  the  company  not  to  be  aware  of  her  situation. 
Silent  glances  were  exchanged,  low  whispers  passed  round ; 
but  they  had  no  inclination  to  lose  the  entertainment  they 
anticipated.  They  remembered  the  luxuries  of  her  table,  and 
hoped,  at  least,  if  not  a  "  feast  of  reason,"  a  feast  of  the  good 
things  of  earth. 

It  was  at  this  crisis  Emily  Spencer  arrived.  Her  travelling 
dress,  and  the  fatigue  of  a  journey,  were  suflicient  excuses  for 
her  declining  to  appear  in  the  drawing-room ;  but  the  moment 
she  saw  Mrs.  Manly,  her  eye,  too  well  experienced,  perceived 


THE   VICTIM   OF  EXCITEMENT.  55 

the  backsliding  of  Anne,  and  hope  died  within  her  bosom. 
Sick  at  heart,  wounded,  and  indignant,  she  sat  down  in  the 
chamber  where   the  children   slept— those   innocent  beings, 
doomed  to  an  orphanage  more  sad  than  death  even  makes. 
Anne's  conscious  spirit  quailed  before  the  deep  reproach  of 
Emily's  silent  glances.     She  stammered  out  an  explanation 
of  the  bloody  bandage  that  was  bound  around  the  infant's   , 
head,  assured  her  there  was  no  cause  of  alarm,  and  hurried  f 
down  to  the  friends  who  had  passed  the  period  of  her  absence 
in  covert  sarcasm,  and  open  animadversion  on  her  conduct. 

Emily  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  leaned  over  the 
sleeping  infant.  Though  Mrs.  Manly  had  assured  her  there 
was  no  cause  of  alarm,  she  felt  there  was  no  reliance  on  her 
judgment ;  and  the  excessive  paleness  and  languor  of  its 
countenance,  excited  an  anxiety  its  peaceful  slumbers  could 
not  entirely  relieve.  "  It  is  all  over,"  thought  she,  "a  re 
lapse  in  sin  is  always  a  thousand  times  more  dangerous  than 
the  first  yielding.  She  is  at  this  moment  blazoning  her  dis 
grace,  and  there  will  be  no  restraining  influence  left.  Oh ! 
unfortunate  Manly  !  was  it  for  this  you  sacrificed  home, 
friends,  and  splendid  prospects,  and  came  a  stranger  to  a 
strange  land !"  Absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  Manly's 
unhappy  destiny,  she  remained  till  the  company  dispersed, 
and  Mrs.  Manly  dragged  her  weary  footsteps  to  her  cham 
ber.  Completely  exhausted  by  her  efforts  to  command  her 
bewildered  faculties,  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  and  sunk 
into  a  lethargy ;  the  natural  consequence  of  inebriation.  The 
infant,  disturbed  by  the  sudden  motion,  awakened,  with  a 
languid  cry,  expressive  of  feebleness  and  pain.  Ernify  raised 
it  in  her  arms,  endeavoured  to  soothe  its  complaining ;  but 
it  continued  restless  and  wailing,  till  the  blood  gushed  afresh 
through  the  bandage.  Greatly  alarmed,  she  shook  Mrs. 
Manly's  arm,  and  called  upon  her  to  awake.  It  was  in 
vain ;  she  could  not  rouse  her  from  her  torpor.  Instantly 
ringing  the  bell,  she  summoned  the  nurse,  who  was  revel 
ling,  with  the  other  servants,  over  the  relics  of  the  feast,  and  J 
told  her  to  send  immediately  for  a  physician.  Fortunately 
there  was  one  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  he  came  speedily. 
He  shook  his  head  mournfully  when  he  examined  the  con 
dition  of  the  child,  and  pronounced  its  case  beyond  the  reach 
of  human  skill.  The  injury  produced  by  the  fall  had  reached 
the  brain.  The  very  depth  of  its  slumbers  was  but  a  fatal 
eymptom.  of  approaching  dissolution.  The  tears  of  Emily  fell 


56  THE  VICTIM   OF  EXCITEMENT. 

fast  and  thick  on  the  pallid  face  of  the  innocent  victim.  8ta 
looked  upon  its  mother — thought  upon  its  father,  and  preyed 
the  child  in  agony  to  her  bosom.  The  kind  physician  was? 
summoned  to  another  chamber  of  sickness.  He  had  done  all 
he  could  to  mitigate,  where  he  could  not  heal.  Emily  felt 
that  this  dispensation  was  sent  in  mercy.  She  could  not  pray 
for  the  child's  life,  but  she  prayed  that  it  might  die  in  the 
arms  of  its  father;  and  it  seemed  that  her  prayer  was  heard. 
It  was  a  singular  providence  that  brought  him  that  very  night 
— a  week  sooner  than  he  anticipated — urged  on  by  a  restless 
presentiment  of  evil;  a  dread  that  all  was  not  well.  Imagina 
tion,  however,  had  not  pictured  the  scene  that  awaited  him. 
His  wife,  clothed  in  her  richest  raiments,  and  glittering  with 
jewels,  lying  in  the  deep  torpor  of  inebriation.  .Emily,  seated 
by  the  side  of  the  bed,  bathed  in  tears,  holding  in  her  lap  the 
dying  infant,  her  dress  stained  with  the  blood  with  which  the 
fair  locks  of  the  child  were  matted.  What  a  spectacle  !  He 
stood  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold  of  the  apartment,  as  if  a 
bolt  had  transfixed  him.  Emily  was  not  roused  from  her 
grief  by  the  sound  of  his  footsteps,  but  she  saw  the  shadow 
that  darkened  the  wall,  and  at  once  recognised  his  lineaments. 
The  startling  cry  she  uttered  brought  him  to  her  side,  where, 
kneeling  down  over  his  expiring  infant,  he  gazed  on  its 
altering  features  and  quivering  frame  with  a  countenance  so 
pale  and  stern,  Emily's  blood  ran  cold.  Silently  and  fixedly 
he  knelt,  while  the  deepening  shades  of  dissolution  gathered 
over  the  beautiful  waxen  features  and  the  dark  film  grew  over 
the  eyes,  so  lately  bright  with  that  heavenly  blue,  which  is 
alone  seen  in  the  eyes  of  infancy.  He  inhaled  its  last,  cold, 
struggling  breath  ;  saw  it  stretched  in  the  awful  immobility 
of  death ;  then  slowly  rising,  he  turned  towards  the  gaudy 
figure  that  lay  as  if  in  mockery  of  the  desolation  it  had 
created.  Then  Manly's  imprisoned  spirit  burst  its  bonds. 
He  grasped  his  wife's  arm,  with  a  strength  that  might  have 
been  felt,  even  were  her  limbs  of  steel,  and  calling  forth  her 
"  name  in  a  voice  deep  and  thrilling  as  the  trumpet's  blast,  he 
commanded  her  to  rise.  With  a  faint  foretaste  of  the  feeling 
with  which  the  guilty,  soul  shall  meet  the  awakening  summons 
of  the  archangel,  the  wretched  woman  raised  herself  on  her 
elbow,  and  gazed  around  her  with  a  wild  and  glassy  stare. 
"Woman,"  cried  he,  still  retaining  his  desperate  grasp,  and 
pointing  to  the  dead  child,  extended  on  the  lap  of  the  weeping 
Emily,  '  woman !  is  this  your  work  ?  Is*  this  the  welcome 


THE   VICTIM   OP   EXCITEMENT.  57 

you  have  prepared  for  my  return  ?  Oh  !  most  perjured  wife 
and  most  abandoned  mother  !  You  have  filled,  to  overflow 
ing,  the  vials  of  indignation ;  on  your  own  head  shall  they  be 
poured,  blasting  and  destroying.  You  have  broken  the  last 
tie  that  bound  me — it  withers  like  flax  in  the  flame.  Was  it 
not  enough  to  bring  down  the  gray  hairs  of  your  father  to  the 
grave?  to  steep  your  own  soul  in  perjury  and  shame,  but  that 
fair  innocent  must  be  a  sacrifice  to  your  drunken  revels  ?  One 
other  victim  remains.  Your  husband — who  lives  to  curse  the 
hour  he  ever  yielded  to  a  syren,  who  lured  him  to  the  brink 
of  hell  V 

He  paused  suddenly — relaxed  his  iron  hold,  and  fell  back 
perfectly  insensible.  It  is  an  awful  thing  to  see  man  fall  down 
in  his  strength,  struck,  too,  by  the  lightning  of  passion.  Anne 
sprang  upon  her  feet.  The  benumbing  spell  was  broken.  His 
last  words  had  reached  her  naked  soul.  She  believed  him 
dead,  and  that  he  had  indeed  died  her  victim.  Every  other 
thought  and  feeling  was  swallowed  up  in  this  belief;  she  threw 
herself  by  his  side,  uttering  the  most  piercing  shrieks,  and 
rending  her  sable  tresses,  in  the  impotence  of  despair.  Poor 
Emily!  it  was  for  her  a  night  of  horror;  but  her  fortitude 
and  presence  of  mind  seemed  to  increase  with  the  strength  of 
the  occasion.  She  turned  her  cares  from  the  dead  to  the 
living.  She  bathed  with  restorative  waters  the  pale  brow  of 
Manly ;  she  chafed  his  cold  hands,  till  their  icy  chill  began 
to  melt  in  the  warmth  of  returning  animation.  All  the  while 
his  wretched  wife  continued  her  useless  and  appalling  ravings. 

The  morning  dawned  upon  a  scene  of  desolation.  In  one 
darkened  room  lay  the  snowy  corpse,  dressed  in  the  white 
garments  of  the  grave;  in  another,  the  almost  unconscious 
Manly,  in  the  first  stages  of  a  burning  fever;  Anne,  crouched 
in  a  dark  corner,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands ;  and  Emily, 
pale  and  wan,  but  energetic  and  untiring,  still  the  ministering 
and  healing  spirit  of  this  house  of  grief.  Yes  !  darkness  and 
mourning  was  in  that  house ;  but  the  visitation  of  God  har1 
not  come  upon  it :  Pestilence  had  not  walked  in  the  dark 
ness,  nor  Destruction,  at  the  noon-day  hour.  Had  Anno 
resisted  the  voice  of  the  tempter,  her  child  might  have  still 
smiled  in  his  cherub  beauty ;  her  husband  might  have  still 
presided  at  his  board,  and  she,  herself,  at  his  side ;  if  not  in 
tlie  sunshine  of  love,  in  the  light  of  increasing  confidence. 
Her  frame  was  worn  by  the  long,  silent  struggles  of  contend 
ing  passions,  hopes,  and  fears.  This  last  blow  prostrated  her  in 


58  THE    VICTIM   OF  EXCITEMENT. 

the  dust.  Had  Anne  resisted  the  voice  of  the  tempter,  all 
might  yet  have  been  well ;  but  having  once  again  steeped  her 
lips  in  the  pollution,  the  very  consciousness  of  her  degradation 
plunged  her  deeper  in  sin.  She  fled  from  the  writhing  of 
remorse  to  the  oblivious  draught.  She  gave  herself  up,  body 
and  soul,  irredeemably.  She  was  hurrying  on,  with  fearful 
strides,  to  that  brink  from  which  so  many  immortal  beings 
have  plunged  into  the*  fathomless  gulf  of  perdition. 

Manly  rose  from  the  couch  of  sickness  an  altered  man  :  his 
proud  spirit  was  humbled — chastened — purified.  Brought  to 
the  confines  of  the  unseen  world,  he  was  made  to  feel  the 
vanity — the  nothingness  of  this — and  while  his  soul  seemed 
floating  on  the  shoreless  ocean  of  eternity,  the  billows  of 
human  passion  sunk  before  the  immensity,  the  awfulness  of 
the  scene.  The  holy  resolutions,  formed  on  what  he  believed 
his  death-bed,  did  not  vanish  with  returning  health.  He  saw 
the  bitter  cup  prepared  for  him  to  drain,  and  though  he  prayed 
that  it  might  be  permitted  to  pass  from  him,  he  could  say,  in 
the  resignation  of  his  heart,  "Not  my  will,  oh,  Father!  but 
thine  be  done."  He  looked  upon  his  degraded  wife  rather 
with  pity,  than  indignation.  He  no  longer  reproached  her, 
or  used  the  language  of  denunciation.  But  sometimes,  in  her 
lucid  intervals,  when  she  witnessed  the  subdued  expression  of 
his  once  haughty  countenance— his  deep  paleness — the  mild 
ness  of  his  deportment  to  all  around  him ;  the  watchful  guard 
he  held  over  his  own  spirit ;  and  all  this  accompanied  by  an 
energy  in  action — a  devotedness  in  duty — such  as  she  had 
never  seen  before — Anne  trembled,  and  felt  that  he  had  been 
near  unto  his  Maker,  while  she  was  holding  closer  and  closer 
companionship  with  the  powers  of  darkness.  The  wall  of 
separation  she  had  been  building  up  between  them,  was  it 
to  become  high  as  the  heavens — deep  as  the  regions  of  irreme 
diable  woe  ? 

Emil}  was  no  longer  their  guest.  While  Manly  lingered 
between  life  and  death,  she  watched  over  him  with  all  a  sister's 
endernesH.  Insensible  to  fatigue — forgetful  of  sleep — and 
regardless  of  food,  she  was  sustained  by  the  intensity  of  her 
anxiety;  but  as  soon  as  his  renovated  glance  could  answer  her 
attentions  with  speechless  gratitude,  and  he  became  conscious 
of  the  cares  that  had  done  more  than  the  physician's  skill  in 
bringing  him  back  to  life,  she  gradually  yielded  to  others  the 
place  she  had  occupied  as  nurse — that  place,  which  she  who 
should  have  claimed  it  as  her  right,  was  incapacitated  to  fill. 


THE  VICTIM   OP  EXCITEMENT.  59 

When  Manly  was  restored  tc  health,  Emily  felt  that  she  could 
no  longer  remain.  There  was  no  more  fellowship  with  Anne; 
and  the  sympathy  that  bound  her  to  her  husband  she  could 
not,  with  propriety,  indulge.  Manly,  himself,  did  not  oppose 
her  departure ;  he  felt  it  was  best  she  should  go.  She  took 
with  her  the  little  Anne,  with  the  grateful  consent  of  her 
father.  The  opposition  of  the  mother  was  not  allowed  to 
triumph  over  what  Manly  knew  was  for  the  blessing  of  his 
child.  "Let  her  go,"  said  he,  mildly,  but  determinately ; 
"  she  will  not  feel  the  want  of  a  mother's  care." 


It  was  a  dark  and  tempestuous  night.  The  winds  of  autumn 
swept  against  the  windows,  with  the  mournful  rustle  of  the 
withered  leaves,  fluttering  in  the  blast:  the  sky  was  moonless 
and  starless.  Everything  abroad  presented  an  aspect  of  gloom 
and  desolation.  Even  those  who  were  gathered  in  the  halls 
of  pleasure,  felt  saddened  by  the  melancholy  sighing  of  the 
gust;  and  a  cold,  whispered  mortality  breathed  into  the  hearts 
of  the  thoughtless  and  gay.  It  was  on  this  night  that  Manly 
sat  by  the  dying  couch  of  Anne.  Every  one  is  familiar  with 
the  rapid  progress  of  disease,  when  it  attacks  the  votary  of 
intemperance.  The  burning  blood  soon  withers  up  the  veins ; 
the  fountain,  itself,  becomes  dry.  Fearfully  rapid,  in  this  in 
stance,  had  been  the  steps  of  the  destroyer.  Here  she  lay, 
her  frame  tortured  with  the  agonies  of  approaching  dissolu 
tion,  and  her  spirit  strong  and  clear  from  the  mists  that  had 
so  long  and  so  fatally  obscured  it.  She  saw  herself  in  that 
mirror  which  the  hand  of  truth  holds  up  to  the  eye  of  the 
dying.  Memory,  which  acquires,  at  that  awful  moment,  such 
supernatural  power,  brought  before  her  all  the  past — the  wasted 
past — the  irretrievable  past.  Her  innocent  childhood — her 
bright  and  glowing  youth ;  her  blasted  womanhood,  seemed 
embodied  to  her  eyes.  Her  father  rose  from  his  grave,  and 
standing  by  her  bedside,  waving  his  mournful  locks,  warned 
her  of  her  broken  oath.  Her  little  infant,  with  his  fair  hair 
dabbled  with  blood,  came  gliding  in  its  shroud,  and  accused 
her  of  being  its  murderer.  Her  husband  !  As  her  frenzied 
spirit  called  up  this  last  image,  she  turned  her  dim  eye  to  him, 
who  was  hanging  over  her  couch  with  a  countenance  of  such 
grief  and  compassion,  the  dry  agony  of  her  despair  softened 
into  a  gush  of  remorseful  tenderness  :  "  Oh  !  no — no  !"  cried 
she,  in  difficult  accents,  "  you  do  not  curse  me ;  you  live  to 


60  THE  VICTIM   OP  EXCITEMENT. 

pardon  the  wretch  who  has  undone  herself  and  you.  Oh ! 
could  I  live  over  the  past ;  could  I  carry  back  to  our  bridal 
the  experience  of  this  awful  hour,  what  long  years  of  happi 
ness  might  be  ours  !" 

The  recollection  of  what  she  had  been — of  what  she  might 
have  been — contrasted  with  what  she  then  was,  and  with  what 
she  still  might  be,  was  too  terrible.  Her  agonies  became 
wordless.  Manly  knelt  by  her  side  :  he  sought  to  soothe  her  ^ 
departing  spirit  by  assurances  of  his  own  pardon  ;  and  to  lead 
her,  by  penitence  and  prayer,  to  the  feet  of  Him,  "  in  whose 
sight  the  heavens  are  not  clean."  He  poured  into  her  soul 
the  experience  of  his,  when  he  had  travelled  to  the  boundaries 
of  the  dark  valley  :  his  despair — his  penitence,  and  his  hopes. 
He  spoke  of  the  mercy  that  is  boundless — the  grace  that  is 
infinite — till  the  phantoms,  accusing  conscience  called  up, 
seemed  to  change  their  maledictions  into  prayers  for  her  be 
half.  Her  ravings  gradually  died  away,  and  she  sunk  into  a 
troubled  sleep. 

As  Manly  gazed  upon  her  features,  on  which  death  was 
already  fixing  its  dim,  mysterious  impress, — those  features 
whose  original  beauty  was  so  fearfully  marred  by  the  ravages 
of  intemperance, — the  waters  of  time  rolled  back,  and  revealed 
that  green,  enchanted  spot  in  life's  waste,  where  he  was  first 
gilded  by  her  presence.  Was  that  the  form  whose  graceful 
movements  then  fascinated  his  senses ;  or  those  the  eyes, 
whose  kindling  glances  had  flashed  like  a  glory  over  his  soul  ? 
The  love,  then  so  idolatrous  and  impassioned — so  long  crushed 
and  buried — rose  up  from  the  ruins  to  hallow  the  vigils  of  that 
solemn  night. 

The  morning  dawned,  but  the  slumbers  of  Anne  were  never 
to  be  broken,  till  the  resurrection  morn.  In  the  bloom  of  life 
— the  midst  of  affluence — with  talents  created  to  exalt  society, 
and  graces  to  adorn  it;  a  heart  full  of  warm  and  generous  im 
pulses;  a  husband  as  much  the  object  of  her  pride  as  of  her 
affections ;  children,  lovely  in  their  innocence,  she  r'ell  a  sacri 
fice  to  one  brutalizing  passion.  Seldom,  indeed,  is  it  that 
woman,  in  the  higher  walks  of  life,  presents  such  a  melan 
choly  example;  but  were  there  but  one,  and  that  one  Anne 
Weston,  let  her  name  be  revealed,  as  a  beacon,  whose  warning 
light  should  be  seen  by  the  daughters  of  the  land. 


A  nother  year  glided  by.    The  approach  of  another  autumn, 


THE   VICTIM   OF   EXCITEMENT.  61 

found  Manly  girded  for  enterprise.  He  had  marked  out  a 
new  path,  and  was  about  to  become  a  dweller  of  a  young  and 
powerful  city,  born  on  one  of  the  mighty  rivers  of  the  West. 
His  child  could  there  grow  up,  unwithered  by  the  associations 
of  her  mother's  disgrace.  Amidst  the  hopes  and  anticipations 
gathering  around  a  new  home,  in  a  new  land,  his  own  spirit 
might  shake  off  the  memories  that  oppressed  its  energies.  He 
•was  still  young.  The  future  might  offer  something  of  bright 
ness,  to  indemnify  for  the  darkness  of  the  past. 

He  once  more  sought  the  native  place  of  his  unhappy  wife'; 
for  his  child  was  there,  under  the  cherishing  care  of  Emily 
Spencer.  He  passed  that  ball-room,  in  whose  illuminated 
walls  his  destiny  was  sealed.  The  chamber  selected  for  the 
traveller's  resting-place  was  the  one  where  the  prophetic  dream 
had  haunted  his  pillow.  His  brow  was  saddened  by  the  gloom 
of  remembrance,  when  he  entered  the  dwelling-place  of  his 
child ;  but  when  he  saw  the  bright,  beautiful  little  creature, 
who  sprang  into  his  arms,  with  spontaneous  rapture,  and  wit 
nessed  the  emotion  that  Emily  strove  vainly  to  conquer,  he 
felt  he  was  not  alone  in  the  world :  and  the  future  triumphed 
over  the  past.  He  unfolded  all  his  views,  and  described  the 
new  scenes  in  which  he  was  soon  to  become  an  actor,  with 
reviving  eloquence. 

"  Are  you  going  to  carry  me  there  too,  father  ?"  said  the 
little  girl,  whose  earnest  blue  eyes  were  riveted  on  his  face. 

"  Are  you  not  willing  to  go  with  me,  my  child  ?  or  must  I 
leave  you  behind  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to  go,  if  you  will  take  Emily,  but  I  cannot 
leave  her  behind,"  cried  the  affectionate  child,  clinging  to 
that  beloved  friend,  who  had  devoted  herself  to  her  with  all  a 
mother's  tenderness. 

"  We  will  not  leave  her,"  exclaimed  Manly,  a  warm  glow 
spreading  over  his  melancholy  features,  "if 'she  will  go  with 
us,  and  bless  our  western  home." 

Emily  turned  pale,  but  she  did  not  speak — she  could  not, 
if  her  existence  had  depended  upon  it.  She  was  no  sickly 
sentimentalist,  but  she  had  ardent  affections,  though  always 
under  the  government  of  upright  principles.  Her  mind  was 
well  balanced,  and  though  passion  might  enter,  it  was  never 
suffered  to  gain  the  ascendancy.  From  her  earliest  acquaint 
ance  with  Manly,  she  had  admired  his  talents,  and  respected 
his  character ;  but  the  idea  of  loving  the  husband  of  her  friend, 
never  entered  her  pure  imagination.  It  was  not  till  she  saw 
105 


62  THE   VICTIM   OF   EXCITEMENT. 

him  borne  down  by  domestic  sorrow,  on  the  bed  of  sickness, 
thrown  by  the  neglect  of  his  wife  on  her  tenderness  and 
care,  that  she  felt  the  danger  and  depth  of  her  sympathy. 
The  moment  she  became  aware  of  her  involuntary  departure 
from  integrity  of  feeling  she  fled,  and  in  the  tranquillity  of 
her  own  home,  devoted  to  his  child  the  love  she  shuddered 
to  think  began  to  flow  in  an  illegitimate  channel.  That 
Manly  ever  cherished  any  sentiments  towards  her,  warmer 
than  those  of  esteem  and  gratitude,  she  did  not  believe,  but 
now  he  came  before  her,  freed  by  heaven  from  the  shackles 
that  bound  him,  and  duty  no  longer  opposed  its  barrier  to  her 
affections,  her  heart  told  her  she  could  follow  him  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth,  and  deem  its  coldest,  darkest  region,  a  Paradise, 
if  warmed  and  illumed  by  his  love  !  The  simplicity  of  child 
hood  had  unveiled  the  hearts  of  each  to  the  other.  It  was 
not  with  the  romance  of  his  earlier  passion  that  Manly  now 
wooed  Emily  Spencer  to  be  his  wife.  It  was  love,  approved 
by  reason,  and  sanctified  by  religion.  It  was  the  Christian, 
seeking  a  fellow  labourer  in  the  work  of  duty;  the  father, 
yearning  for  a  mother  to  watch  over  an  orphan  child — the  man 
awakened  to  the  loftiest,  holiest  purposes  of  his  being. 

In  a  beautiful  mansion,  looking  down  on  one  of  the  most 
magnificent  landscapes  unfolded  in  the  rich  valley  of  the  West, 
Manly  and  Emily  now  reside.  All  the  happiness  capable  of 
being  enjoyed  around  the  household  shrine  is  theirs — and  the 
only  shade  that  ever  dims  their  brows,  is  caused  by  the  re 
membrance  of  the  highly  gifted — but  ill-fated  Anne. 


THE  BLIND  GIRL'S  STORY. 


ALL  \s  still  and  solitary — the  lamp  burns  on  the  table,  with 
wasting  splendour.  The  writing-desk  is  open  before  me,  with 
the  last  letter  unfolded — the  letter  I  have  cherished  so  fondly, 
though  every  word  seems  an  arrow  to  my  conscience.  I  can 
not  solace  myself  by  the  act,  yet  I  must  give  utterance  to  the 
feelings  with  which  my  heart  is  bursting.  On  these  unwritten 
sheets  I  will  breathe  my  soul — I  will  trace  its  early  history, 
and,  perchance,  his  eye  may  see  them  when  mine  are  veiled 
in  a  darkness  deeper  than  that  which  once  sealed  them.  Yet 
what  shall  I  write?  How  shall  I  commence?  What  great 
events  rise  up  in  the  records  of  memory,  over  which  imagination 
may  throw  its  rich  empurpling  dyes  ?  Alas  !  mine  is  but  a 
record  of  the  heart — but  of  a  blind  girl's  heart — and  that 
Being  who  bound  my  eyes  with  a  fillet  of  darkness,  till  the 
hand  of  science  lifted  the  thick  film,  and  flooded  them  with 
the  glories  of  creation,  alone  knows  the  mysteries  of  the  spirit 
he  has  made.  His  eye  is  upon  me  at  this  moment,  and  as 
this  awful  conviction  comes  over  me,  a  kind  of  deathlike  calm 
ness  settles  on  the  restless  sea  of  passion.  Oh  !  when  I  was 
blind,  what  was  my  conception  of  the  All-seeing  eye  !  It 
seemed  to  me  as  if  it  filled  the  world  with  its  effulgence.  I 
felt  as  if  I,  in  my  blindness,  were  placed  in  the  hollow  of  that 
rock  where  Moses  hid,  when  the  glory  of  the  Lord  passed  by 
Would  that  no  daring  hand  had  drawn  me  from  that  protect 
ing  shade  !  The  beams  that  enlighten  me  have  withered  u_ 
the  fountains  of  joy,  and  though  surrounded  by  light,  as  with  a 
garment,  my  soul  is  wrapped  in  the  gloom  of  midnight.  I 
was  a  blind  child — blind  from  my  birth — with  one  brother, 
older  than  myself,  and  a  widowed  father — for  we  were  mo 
therless — motherless,  sisterless — yet  blind.  What  a  world  of 
dependence  is  expressed  in  these  few  words !  But,  thougk 

(63) 


64  THE  BLIND   GIRL'S   STORY. 

thus  helpless  and  dependent,  I  was  scarcely  conscious  of  my 
peculiar  claim  to  sympathy  and  care. 

My  father  was  wealthy,  and  my  childhood  was  crowned 
with  every  indulgence  that  wealth  could  purchase,  or  parental 
tenderness  devise.  My  brother  was  devotedly  attached  to  me, 
giving  up  all  his  leisure  to  my  amusement — for  I  was  looked 
upon  as  hallowed  by  the  misfortune  which  excluded  me  from 
communion  with  the  visible  world — and  my  wishes  became 
laws,  and  my  happiness  the  paramount  object  of  the  household. 
Heaven,  perhaps,  as  a  kind  of  indemnification  for  depriving 
me  of  one  of  the  wonted  blessings  of  life,  moulded  me  in  a 
form  which  pleased  the  fond  eyes  of  my  relatives,  and,  as  it 
was  my  father's  pride  to  array  me  in  the  most  graceful  and 
becoming  attire,  my  sightless  eyes  being  constantly  covered  by 
a  silken  screen,  I  was  a  happy  child.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
the  epithet,  poor,  so  often  attached  to  my  name,  I  should 
never  have  dreamed  that  mine  was  a  forlorn  destiny.  "  My 
poor  little  blind  girl,"  my  father  would  exclaim,  as  he  took 
me  in  his  lap,  after  his  return  from  his  business  abroad — 
"  My  poor  little  sister,"  was  the  constant  appellation  given 
me  by  my  affectionate  brother,  yet  I  was  happy.  When  he 
led  me  in  the  garden,  through  the  odorous  flowers,  I  felt  a 
kind  of  aching  rapture  at  the  sweetness  they  exhaled — their 
soft,  velvet  texture,  was  ecstasy  to  the  touch,  and  the  wind- 
harps  that  played  amid  the  branches  of  the  trees  were  like  the 
lyres  of  angels  to  my  ears.  Then  the  songs  of  birds,  with 
what  thrilling  sensations  would  I  listen  to  these  harmonists  of 
nature,  these  winged  minstrels  of  God's  own  choir,  as  they 
lifted  their  strains  of  living  harmony  in  the  dim  corridors  of 
the  woods  !  They  painted  to  me  the  beauty  of  the  world,  and 
I  believed  them — but  I  could  conceive  of  nothing  so  beautiful 
as  sound.  I  associated  the  idea  of  everything  that  was  lovely 
with  music.  It  was  my  passion,  and  also  my  peculiar  talent. 
Every  facility  which  art  has  furnished  to  supply  the  deficien- 
>ies  of  nature  was  given  me,  and  my  progress  was  considered 
stouishing  by  those  who  are  not  awarp  of  the  power  and  acute- 
ness  of  touch  bestowed  upon  the  sightless.  I  love  to  linger 
on  the  days  of  my  childhood,  when  sunshine  flowed  in  upon 
my  heart  in  one  unclouded  stream.  The  serpent  slumbered  in 
the  bottom  of  the  fountain — had  no  one  gone  down  into  its 
depths,  its  venom  might  have  slumbered  yet. 

My  first  cause  of  sorrow  was  parting  with  my  brother — 
"  my  guide,  my  companion,  my  familiar  friend."     He  was 


THE   BLIND   GIRI/S   STORY.  65 

sent  to  a  distant  college,  and  I  felt  for  a  while  as  if  I  were 
alone  in  the  world,  for  my  father  was  in  public  life,  and  it  was 
only  at  evening  he  had  leisure  to  indulge  in  the  tenderness  of 
domestic  feeling.  He  had  never  given  up  the  hope  that  I 
might  recover  my  sight.  When  I  was  very  small  there  was 
an  operation  performed  upon  my  eyes,  but  it  was  by  an  unskilful 
oculist,  and  unsuccessful.  After  this  I  had  an  unspeakable 
dread  of  any  future  attempt, — the  slightest  allusion  to  the 
subject  threw  me  into  such  nervous  agitation,  my  father  at  last 
forbore  to  mention  it.  "Let  me  live  and  die  under  this 
shade,"  I  would  say,  "  like  the  flower  that  blooms  in  the  cleft 
of  the  rock.  The  sunshine  and  the  dew  are  not  for  me." 
Time  glided  away.  In  one  year  more  Henry  would  complete 
his  collegiate  course.  I  was  in  the  morning  of  womanhood, 
but  my  helpless  condition  preserved  to  me  all  the  privileges 
and  indulgences  of  the  child.  It  was  at  this  era — why  did  I 
here  dash  aside  my  pen,  and  press  my  hands  upon  my  temples 
to  still  the  throbbings  of  a  thousand  pulses,  starting  simultane 
ously  into  motion  ?  Why  cannot  we  always  be  children  ?  Why 
was  I  not  suffered  to  remain  blind  ? — A  young  physician  came 
into  the  neighbourhood,  who  had  already  acquired  some  fame 
as  an  oculist.  He  visited  in  our  family — he  became  almost 
identified  with  our  household.  Philanthropy  guided  him  in 
his  choice  of  a  profession.  He  knew  himself  gifted  with  ex 
traordinary  talents,  and  that  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  mitigate 
the  woes  of  mankind.  But  though  the  votary  of  duty,  he 
was  a  worshipper  at  the  shrine  of  intellect  and  taste.  He 
loved  poetry,  and,  next  to  music,  it  was  my  passion.  He  read 
to  me  the  melodious  strains  of  the  sons  of  song,  in  a  voice 
more  eloquent,  in  its  low  depth  of  sweetness,  than  the  min 
strels  whose  harmony  he  breathed.  When  I  touched  the  keys 
of  the  piano,  his  voice  was  raised,  in  unison  with  mine.  If  I 
wandered  in  the  garden,  his  hand  was  ever  ready  to  guide,  and 
his  arm  to  sustain  me.  He  brought  me  the  wild-flower  of  the 
field,  and  the  exotic  of  the  green-house,  and,  as  he  describfd 
t'aeir  hues  and  outlines,  I  scarcely  regretted  the  want  of  vision. 
Here,  in  this  book,  I  have  pressed  each  faded  gift.  I  remem 
ber  the  very  words  he  uttered  when  he  gave  me  this  cluster. — 
"  See,"  said  he,  "  nay,  feel  this  upright  stem,  so  lofty,  till 
bending  from  the  weight  of  the  flower  it  bears.  It  is  a  lily — 
I  plucked  it  from  the  margin  of  a  stream,  in  which  it  seemed 
gazing  on  its  white,  waxen  leaves.  Touch  gently  the  briars 
of  this  wild  rose.  Thus  heaven  guards  the  innocence  and 


66  THE  BLIND   GIRI/S   STORY. 

beauty  that  gladdens  the  eyes  of  the  wayfaring  man.  Cecilia, 
would  you  not  like  to  look  upon  these  flowers  ?"  "  Yes,  but 
far  rather  on  the  faces  of  those  I  love — my  father's — my 
brother's.  Man  is  made  in  the  image  of  his  Maker,  and  his 
face  must  be  divine."  "  Oh  I"  added  I,  in  the  secrecy  of  my 
own  soul,  "  how  divine  must  be  the  features  of  that  friend, 
who  has  unfolded  to  me  such  unspeakable  treasures  of  genius 
and  feeling,  whose  companionship  seems  a  foretaste  of  the 
felicities  of  heaven."  It  was  then,  for  the  first  time,  he  dared 
to  suggest  to  me  a  hope  that  my  blindness  was  not  incurable. 
He  told  me  he  had  been  devoting  all  his  leisure  to  this  one 
subject,  and  that  he  was  sure  he  had  mastered  every  difficulty; 
that  though  mine  was  a  peculiar  case,  and  had  once  baffled  the 
efforts  of  the  optician,  he  dared  to  assure  himself  of  complete 
success.  "  And  if  I  fail,"  said  he,  "  if  through  my  means  no 
light  should  visit  your  darkened  orbs,  then,"  continued  he, 
with  an  expression  of  feeling  that  seemed  wholly  irrepressible, 
"  suffer  me  to  be  a  light  to  your  eyes  and  a  lamp  to  your  feet. 
But  if  it  should  be  my  lot  to  bestow  upon  you  the  most  glori 
ous  of  the  gifts  of  God,  to  meet  from  you  one  glance  of  grati 
tude  and  love,  were  a  recompense  I  would  purchase  with  life 
itself."  Did  I  dream  ?  or  were  these  words  breathed  to  me  ? 
— me,  the  helpless,  blind  girl !  to  receive  the  unmeasured 
devotion  of  one  of  the  most  gifted  and  interesting  of  created 
beings.  I  had  thought  that  he  pitied  me,  that  he  felt  for  me 
the  kindness  of  a  brother,  that  he  found  in  me  some  congenial 
tastes — but  that  he  loved  me  so  entirely,  it  was  a  confession 
as  unlooked  for  as  overpowering.  My  heart  ached,  from  the 
oppression  of  its  joy.  Let  not  the  cold-hearted  and  vain  smile, 
when  I  repeat  the  broken  accents  of  gratitude,  trust,  and  love, 
that  fell  from  my  lips.  My  helplessness  sanctified  the  offer, 
and  I  received  his  pledge  of  faith  as  a  holy  thing,  to  be  kept 
holy  through  time  and  eternity. 

********* 

Never  shall  I  forget  that  moment,  when  the  first  ray  of  light 
penetrated  the  long  midnight  that  had  shrouded  my  vision. 
It  was  in  a  darkened  apartment.  My  father,  one  female  friend, 
and  Clinton,  the  beloved  physician — these  were  around  me. 
Faint,  dim,  and  uncertain,  as  the  first  gray  of  the  dawn,  was 
that  ray,  but  it  was  the  herald  of  coming  light,  and  hailed  as 
a  day-spring  from  on  high.  A  bandage  was  immediately  drawn 
over  my  brow,  but  during  the  weeks  in  which  I  was  condemned 
to  joinaiu  in  darkness,  the  memory  of  that  dim  radiance  wis 


THE   BLIND   GIRI/S   STORY.  67 

ever  glimmering  round  me.  There  was  a  figure  kneeling,  with 
clasped  hands  and  upraised  head,  pale  and  venerable — I  knew 
it  was  my  father's — for  the  same  figure  folded  me  to  his  heart 
the  next  moment,  and  wept  like  an  infant.  There  was  one 
with  soft  flowing  outline,  and  loose  robes,  by  my  side, — and 
bending  over  me,  with  eyes  gazing  down  into  the  mysteries  of 
my  being,  shadowy  but  glorious,  was  he,  who  received  the  firs 
glance  of  the  being  he  had  awakened  to  a  new  creation 
Slowly,  gradually  was  I  allowed  to  emerge  from  my  eclipse, 
but  when  I  was  at  last  led  from  my  darkened  chamber,  when 
I  looked  abroad  on  the  face  of  nature,  clothed  as  she  was 
in  the  magnificent  garniture  of  summer,  when  I  saw  the 
heavens  unrolled  in  their  majesty,  the  sun  travelling  in  the 
greatness  of  his  strength,  the  flowers  glowing  in  the  beams  that 
enamelled  them,  I  closed  my  eyes,  almost  fainting  from  the 
excessive  glory.  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  my  sensations 
when  I  first  distinctly  saw  the  lineaments  of  my  lover.  Crea 
tion  contained  nothing  so  lovely  to  my  sight.  To  see  the  soul, 
the  thinking,  feeling,  immortal  soul,  flashing  with  enthusi 
asm,  or  darkening  with  tenderness,  looking  forth  from  his  eyes, 
and  feel  my  own  mingling  with  his  !  No  one  but  those  who 
have  once  been  blind,  and  now  see,  can  imagine  the  intensity 
of  my  emotions.  Next  to  my  Creator,  I  felt  my  homage  was 
due  to  him,  and  surely  it  is  not  impious  to  apply  to  him  the 
sublime  language  of  Scripture — "  He  said,  let  there  be  light, 
and  there  was  light." 

Our  mansion  was  transformed.  My  father  gathered  all  his 
friends  around  him  to  participate  in  his  joy.  My  brother  was 
summoned  home.  There  seemed  one  continual  jubilee.  I 
turned  coldly,  however,  from  all  these  festivities,  occupied  al 
most  exclusively  with  one  feeling.  I  could  not  feign  an  in 
terest  in  others  I  did  not  feel.  I  began  even  at  this  early  pe 
riod  to  experience  the  first  symptoms  of  that  passion,  which 
has  since  consumed  me.  Clinton,  though  still,  as  ever,  the 
kind,  devoted,  and  watchful  guardian,  hovering  round  my 
steps,  as  if  to  shield  me  from  every  danger,  Clinton,  I  saw, 
shared  in  the  pleasures  of  sociality,  and  returned  the  smiles 
that  kindled  wherever  he  moved.  He  was  a  universal  favour 
ite  in  society,  and  knew  how  to  adapt  himself  to  others,  not 
from  a  vague  desire  of  popularity,  but  from  a  benevolence,  » 
sunny  glow  of  feeling,  shedding  light  and  warmth  all  around. 
Even  then  there  were  moments  when  I  regretted  my  blindness, 
and  wished  I  had  never  seen  those  smiles  and  glances,  which 


68  THE   BLIND    GIRI/S    STORY. 

I  would  fain  rivet  for  ever  on  myself.  Henry,  my  brother, 
once  whispered  to  me,  as  I  was  turning,  in  a  languid  manner, 
the  leaves  of  a  music  book,  not  caring  to  play  because  Clinton 
was  not  bending  over  my  chair,  "  My  dear  Cecilia,  do  not  let 
Clinton  see  too  glaringly  his  power  over  you.  There  is  scarcely 
man  in  the  world  who  can  be  trusted  with  unlimited  power. 
'We  are  ungrateful  creatures,  my  sweet  sister,  and  you  do  not 
know  us  half  as  well  as  we  know  each  other.  You  ought  to 
love  Clinton,  for  he  merits  it,  but  be  mistress  of  yourself.  Do 
not  love  him  too  well  for  his  peace  and  your  own."  Alas  ! 
poor  Henry — how  little  have  I  heeded  your  brotherly  admo 
nitions?  But  when  did  passion  ever  listen  to  the  counsels  of 
reason — when  will  it?  When  the  cygnet's  down  proves  a 
barrier  to  the  tempest's  breath.  We  were  married.  I  became 
the  inmate  of  a  home,  fashioned  after  the  model  of  my  own 
taste.  Everything  was  arranged  with  a  view  to  my  happiness. 
The  curtains  and  decorations  of  the  house  were  all  of  the  softest 
green,  for  the  repose  of  my  still  feeble  eyes/  Oh  !  thou  bene 
factor  of  my  life — friend,  lover,  husband,  would  that  I  could 
go  back  to  the  hour  when  we  plighted  our  wedded  vows,  and 
live  over  the  past,  convinced,  though  too  late,  how  deeply  I 
have  wronged  thee — confiding  implicitly  in  thy  love  and  truth, 
we  might  live  together  the  life  of  angels  !  And  we  were  happy 
for  a  while.  We  withdrew  as  much  as  possible  from  the  gay 
world.  He  saw  that  I  loved  retirement,  and  he  consulted  uiy 
feelings  as  far  as  was  consistent  with  the  duties  of  his  profes 
sion.  I  might  have  been  convinced  by  this  of  the  injustice  of 
my  suspicions.  I  might  have  known  that  he  loved  me  better 
than  all  the  world  beside.  During  the  day  he  was  but 
seldom  with  me,  as  his  practice  was  extensive,  and  often  called 
him  to  a  distance  from  home,  but  the  evening  was  mine,  and 
it  seemed  my  peculiar  province,  for  I  shrunk  from  the  full 
blaze  of  sunlight.  The  brightness  was  too  intense,  but  when 
the  moon  was  gliding  over  the  firmament,  in  her  sweet,  ap 
proachable  loveliness,  and  the  soft  glitter  of  the  stars  was 
around,  I  could  lift  my  undazzled  eyes,  and  marvel  at  the 
wonderful  works  of  Grod.  Clinton  was  a  devout  astronomer — 
he  taught  me  the  name  of  every  planet  that  burned — of  every 
star  known  to  science.  He  was  rich  in  the  wisdom  of  ancient 
days,  and  his  lips  distilled  instruction  as  naturally  and  con 
stantly  as  the  girl  in  the  fairy  tale  dropped  the  gems  of  the 
Orient.  I  have  made  mention  of  a  female  friend — she  was 
f.he  daughter  of  a  deceased  friend  of  my  father,  and,  as  such, 


THE   BLIND   GIRI/S   STORY.  69 

came  under  his  especial  guardianship.  Since  my  marriage 
she  had  remained  with  him,  to  cheer  his  loneliness,  but  her 
health  becoming  very  delicate,  he  sent  her  to  be  my  guest, 
that  she  might  receive  medical  aid  from  my  husband.  She 
was  not  a  decided  invalid,  but  her  mother  had  died  of  a  con 
sumption,  and  it  was  feared  she  had  a  hereditary  tendency  to 
that  disease.  Alice  was  a  pale,  delicate-looking  girl,  with 
sometimes  a  hectic  flush  on  her  cheek,  a  frail,  drooping  form, 
and  extremely  pensive  cast  of  countenance.  The  dread  of  this 
constitutional  malady  hung  over  her  like  a  death-cloud,  and 
aggravated  symptoms  slight  in  themselves.  Though  there  was 
nothing  very  attractive  in  the  appearance  of  this  poor  girl,  she  • 
was  calculated  to  excite  pity  and  sympathy,  and  surely  she 
had  every  claim  to  mine.  I  did  pity  her,  and  sought,  by  every 
attention  and  kindness,  to  enliven  her  despondency,  and  muse 
her  to  hope  and  vivacity.  But  I  soon  found  that  my  father 
had  encroached  sadly  on  my  domestic  happiness  by  giving  this 
charge  to  my  husband.  Air,  exercise,  and  gentle  recreation, 
were  the  remedies  prescribed  by  the  physician,  and  it  was  his 
duty  to  promote  these  by  every  means  in  his  power.  She  often 
accompanied  him  on  horseback  in  his  rides,  a  pleasure  from 
which  I  was  completely  debarred,  for,  in  my  blindness,  I  was 
incapacitated,  and  the  timidity  which  originated  from  my  situ 
ation  remained  after  the  cause  was  removed.  It  was  some  time 
before  I  was  willing  to  acknowledge  to  myself  the  pain  which 
this  arrangement  gave  me.  I  felt  as  if  my  dearest  privileges 
were  invaded.  I  had  been  so  accustomed,  from  infancy,  to  be 
the  sole  object  of  every  attention,  these  daily  offices  bestowed 
upon  another,  though  dictated  by  kindness  and  humanity, 
were  intolerable  to  me.  Had  I  seen  the  congregated  world 
around  her,  offering  every  homage,  it  would  not  have  given  me 
one  envious  pang  —  but  Clinton,  my  husband,  he  was  more 
precious  to  me  than  ten  thousand  worlds.  She  leaned  too  ex 
clusively  on  his  guardian  care.  I  tried  to  subdue  my  feelings 
— I  tried  to  assume  an  appearance  of  indifference.  My  man 
ners  gradually  became  cold  and  constrained,  and  instead  of 
greeting  my  husband  with  the  joyous  smile  of  welcome,  on  his 
return,  I  would  avert  from  his  the  eyes  which  had  received 
from  him  their  living  rays.  Frank  and  unsuspicious  himself, 
he  did  not  seem  to  divine  the  cause  of  my  altered  demeanour. 
When  he  asked  me  why  I  was  so  silent,  or  so  sad,  I  pleaded 
indisposition,  lassitude — anything  but  the  truth.  I  blamed 
him  for  his  want  of  penetration,  for  I  felt  as  if  my  soul  were 


70  THE   BLIND   GIRL's   STORY. 

bare,  and  that  the  eye  of  affection  could  read  the  tiding?  re 
vealed  by  my  changing  cheek  and  troubled  brow.  In  justice 
to  myself,  let  me  say,  that  Alice,  by  her  manner,  justified  my 
emotions. 

Enlightened  by  the  sentiment  in  my  own  bosom,  I  could 
not  but  mark  that  the  hectic  flush  always  became  brighter 
when  Clinton  approached,  that  her  glance,  kindling  as  it  moved 
"ollowed  his  steps  with  a  kind  of  idolatry.  Then  she  hung 
upon  his  words  with  an  attention  so  flattering.  Was  she  read 
ing,  reclining  on  the  sofa,  apparently  languid  and  uninterested, 
the  moment  he  spoke  she  would  close  her  book,  or  lean  for 
ward,  as  if  fearful  of  losing  the  faintest  sound  of  that  voice, 
which  was  the  music  of  my  life.  I  could  have  borne  this  for 
a  day,  a  week,  a  month — but  to  be  doomed  to  endure  it  for  an 
indefinite  term,  perhaps  for  life,  it  was  unendurable.  A  hun 
dred  times  I  was  on  the  point  of  goiug  to  my  father,  and,  tell 
ing  him  the  secret  of  my  unhappiness,  entreat  him  to  recall 
my  too  encroaching  guest,  but  shame  and  pride  restrained  me. 
Chilled  and  wounded  by  my  coldness,  my  husband  gradually 
learned  to  copy  it,  and  no  longer  sought  the  smiles  and  caresses 
my  foolish,  too  exciting  heart,  deemed  he  no  longer  valued. 
Oh  !  blissful  days  of  early  confidence  and  love !  were  ye  for 
ever  flown?  Was  no  beam  of  tenderness  permitted  to  pene 
trate  the  cold  frost-work  of  ceremony  deepening  between  us? 
It  is  in  vain  to  cherish  love  with  the  memory  of  what  has 
been.  It  must  be  fed  with  daily  living  offerings,  or  the  vestal 
fire  will  wax  dim  and  perish — then  fearful  is  the  penalty  that 
ensues.  The  doom  denounced  upon  the  virgins  of  the  temple, 
when  they  suffered  the  holy  flame  to  become  extinct,  was  less 
terrible.  Alice,  when  the  mildness  of  the  weather  allowed, 
almost  made  her  home  in  the  garden.  She  must  have  felt 
that  I  shrunk  from  her  society,  and  I  knew  she  could  not  love 
the  wife  of  Clinton.  She  carried  her  books  and  pencil  there 
— she  watched  the  opening  blossoms,  and  gathered  the  sweet 
est,  to  make  her  offering  at  the  shrine  she  loved.  My  husband 
was  evidently  pleased  with  these  attentions,  flowing,  as  he 
thought,  from  a  gentle  and  grateful  heart,  and  his  glance  and 
voice  grew  softer  when  he  turned  to  address  the  invalid. 

Once  during  the  absence  of  Alice  I  went  into  her  chamber 
for  a  book  I  had  lent  her,  which  contained  a  passage  I  wished 
to  recall.  I  took  up  several  others,  which  lay  upon  the  table. 
There  was  one  which  belonged  to  my  husband,  and  in  it  was 
a  piece  of  folded  paper,  embalmed  with  flowers,  like  some  holy 


THE  BLIND   GIRI/S    STORY.  11 

relic.'  It  was  not  sealed — it  was  open — it  was  a  medical  pre 
scription,  written  by  Clinton,  thus  tenderly,  romantically  pre 
served.  On  another  half-torn  sheet  were  some  broken  lines, 
breathing  passion  and  despair.  They  were  in  the  handwriting 
of  Alice,  and  apparently  original,  without  address  or  signature, 
but  it  was  easy  for  my  excited  imagination  to  supply  them. 
Poor  victim  of  passion — by  the  side  of  this  record  of  all  my 
fears  was  the  composing  draught,  prepared  to  check  the  con 
sumptive  cough — the  elixir  to  sustain  the  failing  principles  of 
vitality.  How  is  it  that  we  dare  to  kindle  an  unhallowed 
flame,  even  on  the  ashes  of  decaying  mortality  ?  I  left  the 
chamber,  and  retired  to  my  own.  I  knew  not  in  what  manner 
to  act.  I  endeavoured  to  reflect  on  what  I  ought  to  do.  Alice 
and  myself  could  not  live  long  under  the  same  roof,  yet  how 
could  I  bid  her  depart,  or  betray  her  to  my  husband  ?  I  could 
not  believe  such  feelings  could  be  excited  in  her  without  suffi 
cient  encouragement.  I  laid  myself  down  on  the  bed,  and 
wished  I  might  never  rise  again.  I  closed  my  eyes,  and 
prayed  that  the  dark  fillet  of  night  might  rest  on  them  again, 
and  forevermore.  My  cheeks  burned  as  with  consuming  fire, 
but  it  was  in  my  heart.  When  Clinton  returned,  not  finding 
me  in  the  drawing-room,  he  sought  me  in  my  own  chamber. 
He  seemed  really  alarmed  at  my  situation.  He  forgot  all  his 
former  constraint,  and  hung  over  me  with  a  tenderness  and 
anxiety  that  might  have  proved  to  me  how  dear  I  was.  He 
sat  by  me,  holding  my  burning  hand,  and  uttering  every  en 
dearing  expression  affection  could  suggest.  Melted  by  his 
caresses,  I  yearned  to  unbosom  to  him  my  whole  heart — my 
pride,  my  jealousy  was  subdued.  I  endeavoured  to  speak, 
but  the  words  died  on  my  tongue.  Confused  images  flitted 
across  my  brain — then  came  a  dreary  blank.  For  weeks  I  lay 
on  that  bed  of  sickness,  unconscious  of  everything  around  me. 
My  recovery  was  for  a  long  time  doubtful — but  when  I  at  last 
opened  my  languid  eyes,  they  rested  on  the  face  of  my  hus 
band,  who  had  kept  his  unwearied  vigils  by  my  pillow, 
and  still  he  held  my  feeble  hand  in  his,  as  if  he  had  never 
unloosed  his  clasp.  He  looked  pale  and  wan,  but  a  ray  of 
divine  joy  flashed  from  his  eye  as  he  met  my  glance  of  recog 
nition. 

Humbled  and  chastened  by  this  visitation  from  heaven,  reno 
vated  by  the  warm  and  gracious  influences  exerted  for  my 
restoration,  animated  by  new-born  hope,  I  rose  from  my  sick 
bed.  The  vulture  had  unloosened  its  fangs,  and  the  dove  once 


72  THE   BLIND   GIRI/S   STORY. 

more  returned  to  its  nest.  I  could  even  pity  the  misguided 
girl  who  had  caused  me  so  much  unhappiness.  I  treated  her 
with  a  kindness,  of  late  very  unwonted — but  she  evidently 
shunned  my  companionship,  and  in  proportion  as  my  spirits 
rose  from  the  weight  that  had  crushed  them  to  the  dust,  hers 
became  depressed  and  fitful.  Let  me  hurry  on — I  linger  too 
long  on  feelings.  Few  events  have  marked  my  brief  history, 
yet  some  have  left  traces  that  all  the  waves  of  time  can  never 
wash  out. 

It  was  Sunday — it  was  the  first  time  I  had  attended  church 
since  my  illness.  My  husband  accompanied  me,  while  Alice, 
as  usual,  remained  at  home.  The  preacher  was  eloquent — the 
music  sweet  and  solemn — the  aspirations  of  faith  warm  and 
kindling.  I  had  never  before  felt  such  a  glow  of  gratitude 
and  trust ;  and  while  my  mind  was  in  this  state  of  devout  ab 
straction,  Clinton  whispered  to  me  that  he  was  obliged  to 
withdraw  a  short  time,  to  visit  a  patient  who  was  dangerously 
sick — "  but  I  will  return/'  said  he,  "  to  accompany  you 
home."  My  thoughts  were  brought  back  to  earth  by  this  in 
terruption,  and  wandered  from  the  evangelical  eloquence  of 
the  pulpit.  The  services  were  unusually  long,  and  my  head 
began  to  ache  from  the  effort  of  listening.  I  experienced  the 
lingering  effects  of  sickness,  and  feeling  that  dimness  of  sight 
come  over  me,  which  was  a  never-failing  symptom  of  a  malady 
of  the  brain,  I  left  the  church,  and  returned  home,  without 
waiting  for  the  coming  of  my  husband.  When  I  crossed  the 
threshold,  my  spirit  was  free  from  a  shadow  of  suspicion.  I 
had  been  in  an  exalted  mood — I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  sitting 
under  the  outspread  wings  of  the  cherubim,  and  had  brought 
away  with  me  some  faint  reflection  of  the  celestial  glory.  I 
was  conscious  of  being  in  a  high  state  of  nervous  excitement. 
The  reaction  produced  by  the  unexpected  scene  that  presented 
itself,  was,  in  consequence,  more  terrible.  There,  on  a  sofa, 
half  supported  in  the  arms  of  my  husband,  whose  hand  she 
was  grasping  with  a  kind  of  convulsive  energy,  her  hair  un 
bound  and  wet,  and  exhaling  the  odorous  essence  with  which 
it  had  been  just  bathed,  sat  Alice,  and  the  words  that  passed 
her  lips,  as  I  entered,  at  first  unperceived  by  them,  were  these 
— "  Never,  never — she  hates  me — she  must  ever  hate  me." 
I  stood  transfixed — the  expression  of  my  countenance  must 
have  been  awful,  for  they  looked  as  if  confronted  by  an 
avenging  spirit.  Alice  actually  shrieked,  and  her  pale  features 
writhed,  as  the  scroll  when  the  scorching  blaze  comes  near  it. 


THE   BLIND   GIRL'S    STORY.  73 

My  resolution  was  instantaneous.  I  waited  not  for  explana 
tions — the  scene  to  my  nrind  admitted  none.  The  sudden 
withdrawal  of  my  husband  from  church,  upon  the  pretence  of 
an  errand  of  duty,  the  singular  agitation  of  Alice — all  that  I 
saw  and  heard,  filled  me  with  the  most  maddening  emotions — 
all  the  ties  of  wedded  love  seemed  broken  and  withered,  at 
once,  like  the  withes  that  bound  the  awakening  giant.  "  Clin 
ton,"  exclaimed  I,  "  you  have  deceived  me — but  it  is  for  the 
last  time."  Before  he  could  reply,  or  arrest  my  motions,  I 
was  gone.  The  carriage  was  still  at  the  door.  "  Drive  me  to 
my  father's,  directly,"  was  all  I  could  utter,  and  it  was  done. 
Swiftly  the  carriage  rolled  on — I  thought  I  heard  my  name 
borne  after  me  on  the  wind,  but  I  looked  not  behind.  I  felt 
strong  in  the  conviction  of  my  wrongs.  It  would  have  been 
weakness  to  have  wept.  My  scorn  of  such  duplicity  lifted  me 
above  mere  sorrow.  It  was  in  the  gloom  of  twilight  when  I 
reached  my  father's  door.  I  rushed  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  found  myself  in  the  arms  of  my  brother.  "  Cecilia,  my 
sister  !  what  brings  you  here  ?"  He  was  alarmed  at  my  sudden 
entrance,  and  through  the  dusky  shade  he  could  discover  the 
wild  flashing  of  my  eyes,  the  disorder  of  my  whole  appearance. 
The  presence  of  human  sympathy  softened  the  sternness  of  my 
despair.  Tears  gushed  violently  forth.  I  tried  to  explain  to 
him  my  wretchedness  and  its  cause,  but  could  only  exclaim, 
"  Clinton,  Alice,  cruel,  deliberate  deceivers  I"  Henry  bit  his 
lip,  and  ground  his  teeth  till  their  ivory  was  tinged  with  blood, 
but  he  made  no  comments.  He  spoke  then  with  his  usual  calm 
ness,  and  urged  me  to  retire  to  my  chamber,  and  compose  my 
self  before  my  father's  return.  He  almost  carried  me  there  in  his 
arms,  soothing  and  comforting  me.  He  called  for  an  attend 
ant,  again  whispered  the  duty  and  necessity  of  self-control, 
then  left  me,  promising  a  speedy  return.  I  watched  for  the 
footsteps  of  Henry,  but  hour  after  hour  passed  away,  and  he 
returned  not.  I  asked  the  servants  where  he  had  gone  ?  They 
knew  not.  I  asked  myself,  and  something  told  me,  in  au 
awful  voice — "  Gone  to  avenge  thee."  The  moment  this  idea 
flashed  into  my  niind,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  a  murderess.  I  would 
convince  myself  of  the  truth.  I  knew  my  brother's  chamber 
— thither  I  ran,  and  drawing  back  the  bed  curtains,  looked  for 
the  silver  mounted  pistols  that  always  hung  over  the  bed's 
head.  They  were  gone  —  and  a  coat  dashed  hastily  on  the 
counterpane,  a  pocket-book  fallen  on  the  carpet,  all  denoted  a 
hurried  departure  on  some  fatal  errand.  The  agony  I  had 


74  THE  BLIND  GIRL'S  STORY. 

•previously  suffered  was  light  to  what  pierced  me  now.  To 
follow  him  was  my  only  impulse.  I  rushed  out  of  the  house — 
it  \\ias  a  late  hour  in  the  evening — there  was  no  moon  in  the 
sky,  and  I  felt  the  dampness  of  the  falling  dew,  as  I  flew, 
with  uncovered  head,  like  an  unblessed  spirit,  through  the 
d-arkness.  My  brain  began  to  be  thronged  with  wild  images. 
It  seemed  to  me,  legions  of  dark  forms  were  impeding  my 
steps.  "Oh'!  let  me  pass,"  cried  I,  "it  is  my  husband  and 
brother  I  have  slain.  Let  me  pass,"  continued  I,  shrieking,  for 
an  arm  of  flesh  and  blood  was  thrown  around  me,  and  held  me 
struggling.  "  Gracious  heavens,  it  is  the  voice  of  my  Cecilia  \" 
Itf  was  my  father  that  spoke.  I  remember  that  I  recognised 
him,  and  that  was  all.  My  cries  were  changed  to  cries  of 
madness.  I  was  borne  back  raving.  The  malady  that  had  so 
recently  brought  me  to  the  door  of  the  grave,  had  renewed  its 
attack  with  increased  malignancy.  My  brain  had  been  too 
much  weakened  to  bear  the  tension  of  its  agony.  For  long 
months  I  was  confined  within  my  chamber  walls,  sometimes 
tossing  in  delirious  anguish,  at  others  lying  in  marble  uncon 
sciousness,  an  image  of  the  death  they  prayed  might  soon  re 
lease  me  from  my  sufferings.  They  prayed  that  I  might  die, 
rather  than  be  doomed  to  a  living  death.  But  I  lived — lived 
to  know  the  ruin  I  had  wrought. 

My  father  was  a  man  of  majestic  person,  and  time  had 
scarcely  touched  his  raven  locks.  His  hair  was  now  profusely 
silvered,  and  there  were  lines  on  his  brow  which  age  never 
furrowed.  It  was  long  before  I  learned  all  that  had  transpired 
during  this  fearful  chasm  in  my  existence,  but  gradually  the 
truth  was  revealed.  All  that  I  was  at  first  told,  was,  that  my 
husband  and  brother  lived — then,  when  it  was  supposed  I  had 
sufficient  strength  to  bear  the  agitation,  this  letter  from  my 
husband  was  given  me. 

"  Cecilia,  how  shall  I  address  you  ?  I  will  not  reproach  you, 
for  you  have  had  too  bitter  a  lesson.  I  would  fain  have  seen 
you  before  my  departure,  but  you  decline  the  interview,  and 
perhaps  it  is  well.  Should  I  live  to  return — Oh !  Cecilia, 
what  wretchedness  have  you  brought  upon  us  all !  If  your 
alienated  heart  does  not  turn  from  any  memento  of  me,  you 
will  read  these  lines,  and  I  know  you  will  believe  them.  I 
have  been,  as  it  were,  to  the  very  threshold  of  the  presence- 
chamber  of  the  King  of  Kings,  and  am  just  emerging  from 
the  shadows  of  approaching  death.  This  is  the  first  effort  of 
my  feeble  hand.  Most  rash  and  misjudging  woman,  what  have 


THE  BLIND   GIRI/S   STORT.  75 

you  done?  How  madly  have  I  doted  on  you,  how  blindly 
have  I  worshipped  !  yet  all  the  devotion  of  my  life,  my  truth, 
love  and  integrity,  weighed  nothing  in  the  balance  with  one 
moment's  mystery.  I  leave  my  vindication  to  Alice.  She 
will  not  deceive  you.  She  will  tell  you  that  never  did  t\i& 
heart  of  man  throb  with  a  more  undivided  passion  for  another 
than  mine  for  you.  She  will  tell  you — but  what  avails  it? 
You  have  cast  me  from  you,  unvalued  and  untrusted.  Your 
poor,  unhappy  brother  !  his  avenging  hand  sought  my  life — 
the  life  of  him  who  he  believed  had  betrayed  his  sister's  happi 
ness,  the  wretch  almost  unworthy  of  a  brave  man's  resentment. 
In  wresting  the  weapon  from  his  frenzied  grasp,  I  received  an 
almost  deadly  wound.  His  wrath  was  slaked  in  my  blood. 
He  believes  me  innocent.  He  has  been1  to  me  more  than  a 
brother.  He  will  accompany  me  fo  another  clime,  whither 
I  am  going,  to  try  the  effect  of  u.ore  genial  air  on  my 
shattered  frame.  Would  to  God  we  could  have  met  before  we 
parted — perhaps  for  ever.  Your  father  says  you  have  been 
ill,  that  you  fear  the  effect  of  the  meeting  on  both.  You  have 
been  ill — my  ever  adored,  still  tenderly  beloved  Cecilia,  I  write 
not  to  reproach  you.  Bitter  is  the  penalty  paid  for  one  mo 
ment  of  passion.  Had  I  ever  swerved  in  my  affection  for  you, 
even  in  thought,  I  should  deserve  all  I  have  suffered.  I  recall 
your  sadness,  your  coldness,  and  averted  looks.  I  now  know 
the  cause,  and  mourn  over  it.  Why  did  you  not  confide  in 
me  ?  We  might  yet  have  been  happy — but  the  will  of  Goa 
be  done.  The  vessel  waits  that  is  to  bear  us  to  a  transatlantic 
clime — farewell.  Should  I  return,  bearing  with  me  some  por 
tion  of  my  former  vigour,  should  your  confidence  in  my  love 
be  restored,  then,  perchance,  through  the  mercy  of  heaven, 
two  chastened  and  humble  hearts  may  once  more  be  united  on 
earth.  If  I  am  never  permitted  to  revisit  my  native  soil,  if  I 
die  in  a  foreign  land,  know,  that,  faithful  to  you  to  my  latest 
hour,  my  last  thought,  prayer,  and  sigh,  will  be  yours." 


And  he  was  gone — gone — sick,  wounded,  perhaps  dying,  he 
was  gone  to  another  land,  and  the  blood  that  was  drained  from 
him  on  my  soul.  My  father  forbade  him  to  see  me — he  was 
too  feeble  to  bear  the  shock  of  beholding  me  in  the  condition 
I  then  was.  My-real  situation  was  concealed  from  him.  The 
only  means  of  making  the  prohibition  effectual,  was  to  word 
it  as  proceeding  from  myself.  Thus,  he  believed  me  cold  aud 


76  THE   BLIND   GIRL' 8   STORY. 

selfish  to  the  last.  My  father  talked  to  me  of  better  dayf ,  of 
the  hope  of  my  husband's  speedy  restoration,  and  of  our  future 
reunion.  I  could  only  listen  and  weep.  I  dared  not  murmur. 
I  felt  too  deeply  the  justice  of  the  judgment  the  Almighty  had 
passed  against  me.  I  had  one  ordeal  yet  to  pass — an  inter 
view  with  Alice.  She  also  was  under  my  father's  roof,  cun- 
fined  by  increasing  debility  to  her  own  apartment.  As  soon 
as  my  strength  allowed,  I  made  it  a  religious  duty  to  visit  the 
poor  invalid.  I  was  shocked  to  see  the  ravages  of  her  malady. 
Her  eye  of  glassy  brightness  turned  on  me  with  such  a  look 
of  woe  and  remorse,  it  cut  me  to  the  heart.  I  took  the  pale 
thin  hand  she  extended  towards  me,  and  burst  into  tears. 
Yes !  I  saw  it  but  too  clearly.  Here  was  another  victim. 
The  steps  of  the  destroyer  were  fearfully  accelerated.  She  had 
had  a  profuse  hemorrhage  from  the  lungs,  and  her.  voice  was  so 
weak  and  husky,  it  was  with  difficulty  I  could  understand  her. 
She  drew  me  down  near  to  her  pillow,  and,  placing  my  hand 
on  her  heart,  said,  in  a  careful  whisper — "  Remorse,  Cecilia, 
it  is  here.  It  is  this  which  gives  the  sting  to  death."  She 
then  drew  from  beneath  her  pillow  a  paper  that  she  had  writ 
ten  for  me,  which  she  begged  me  to  read  when  I  was  alone. 
I  did  read  it.  It  was  the  transcript  of  a  warm,  romantic  heart, 
erring  and  misguided,  yet  even  in  its  aberrations  discovering 
an  innate  love  for  virtue  and  truth.  Her  whole  soul  was 
bared  before  me — all  her  love,  imprudence,  and  remorse. 
She  described  my  husband  as  an  angel  of  light  and  purity, 
soaring  high  above  the  clouds  of  passion  that  gathered  darkly 
around  herself.  She  spoke  of  that  scene,  followed  by  such 
irremediable  woe.  "  Even  now,"  continued  Alice,  "  wasting 
as  I  am  on  the  bed  of  death,  with  the  shadows  of  earthly 
feeling  dimly  floating  round  me,  knowing  that  I  shall  soon 
turn  to  cold,  impassive  clay,  the  memory  of  that  hour  presses 
with  scorching  weight  on  my  brain.  I  must  have  been  mad. 
Surely  I  had  not  the  control  of  my  reason.  I  had  taken  the 
previous  night  an  unusual  quantity  of  opium,  which,  instead 
of  composing  me  to  sleep,  had  excited  my  nerves,  and  strung 
them  as  with  fire.  Your  husband  came  in  only  a  short  time 
before  your  sudden  entrance,  evidently  on  some  errand ;  and 
though  he  kindly  paused  to  speak  to  me,  his  looks  expressed 
haste  to  depart.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  I 
was  attacked  with  one  of  those  spasms  you  have  sometimes 
witnessed.  He  came  to  my  relief — he  administered  every 
restorative.  I  know  not  all  I  uttered,  but  when  I  recovered  I 


THE   BLIND   GIRI/S   STORY.  77 

remember  many  wild  expressions  that  escaped  my  lips.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  was  going  to  die,  and  while  his  arms  thus 
kindly  supported  me,  I  felt  as  if  it  would  be  joy  to  die.  With 
this  conviction,  was  it  so  black  a  crime  to  breathe  forth  the 
love  that  had  so  long  pervaded  my  frail  and  lonely  existence  ? 
Cecilia,  he  recoiled  from  me  with  horror.  He  proclaimed  his 
inviolable  love  and  devotion  for  you — his  glance  was  stern  and 
upbraiding.  Then  seeing  me  sinking  in  despair,  the  kindness 
of  his  nature  triumphed,  and  he  sought  to  calm  my  over 
wrought  and  troubled  spirit.  He  expressed  the  affection  of  a 
brother,  the  pity  of  a  friend,  the  admonitions  of  a  Christian. 
"  Above  all,"  said  he,  "  make  a  friend  of  Cecilia.  She  will 
always  cherish  you  with  a  sister's  love."  "  Never  !"  I  exclaim 
ed,  "  she  hates  me,  she  must  ever  hate  me."  The  vision  of  an 
injured  wife  arrested  my  unhallowed  accents.  You  know  the 
dreadful  tragedy  that  followed.  Never  since  that  hour  have 
I  had  one  moment's  calm.  Conscience,  with  her  thousand 
scorpions,  lashes  me — whether  sleeping  or  waking  there  is  no 
rest.  '  There  is  no  peace/  saith  my  God,  to  the  wick«d.' 
Yet  mine  was  not  deliberate  guilt.  Had  I  only  wrecked  my 
own  happiness  ! — but  the  wide  desolation,  the  irretrievable 
ruin !  I  shudder,  I  weep,  I  lift  my  feeble  hands  to  that 
Power  whose  laws  I  have  transgressed,  and  pray  for  pardon. 
To  you,  whose  home  of  love  I  have  laid  waste,  dare  I  turn  my 
fading  eyes,  and  hope  for  forgiveness  ?  To  him  whom  I  have 
driven  from  his  native  land,  shorn  of  the  brightness  of  his 

manhood — Oh  !  sinful  dust  and  ashes" here  the  unhappy 

writer  broke  off — the  blank  was  stained  with  tears.  Probably 
in  that  broken  sentence  the  embers  of  passion  flashed  out  their 
last  fires,  through  the  "  dust  and  ashes"  of  withering  mortality. 
Poor  Alice !  may'st  thou  be  forgiven  by  a  merciful  Creator  as 
freely  as  thou  art  by  me.  Gentle  be  thy  passage  through  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  to  that  country  where  no  storms 
desolate  the  heart,  where  passion  and  penitence  are  unknown. 
As  for  me — why  and  for  what  do  I  live  ?  For  hope  or  des 
pair  ?  I  pray  for  tidings  from  the  beloved  exiles,  yet  dread  to 
receive  them.  If  the  night  gale  sweeps  with  hasty  gust 
against  the  window,  I  tremble  lest  they  be  exposed  to  the 
stormy  deep.  When  I  gaze  on  the  moon  and  stars,  I  ask  my 
self  if  they  are  lighting  the  wanderers  on  their  homeward 
way,  and  sometimes  gather  hope  from  their  heavenly  bright 
ness. 

The  manuscript  of  Cecilia  here  abruptly  closes.      It  has 
106 


78  THE   BLIND   GIRI/S   STORY. 

fallen  to  the  lot  of  one  who  afterwards  became  the  devoted 
friend  of  Clincon,  to  relate  the  sequel  of  their  melancholy 
history. 

"  It  was  in  the  spring  of  the  year  18 ,  I  was  sitting  on 

the  deck,  watching  the  rapid  motion  of  the  boat,  as  it  glided 
over  the  waves,  thinking  earnestly  of  the  place  of  my  destina 
tion,  when  I  first  beheld  Cecilia,  the  wife  of  Clinton.  I  was  a 
stranger  on  board,  and  gazed  around  me  with  that  indefinite 
expression,  which  marks  the  stranger  to  the  experienced  eye. 
At  length  my  glance  was  riveted  by  the  appearance  of  a  lady, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  gray-haired  gentleman,  slowly  prome 
nading  the  deck.  They  passed  and  rcpassed  me,  while  I  con 
tinued  to  lean  over  the  railing,  fearing,  by  a  change  of  position, 
to  disturb  the  silent  strangers.  There  was  something  in  the 
figure  of  the  lady  inexpressibly  interesting.  She  wore  a 
mourning-dress,  and  her  eyes  were  covered  with  a  green  shade. 
Notwithstanding  her  face  was  thus  partially  obscured,  the 
most  exquisite  beauty  of  outline  and  colouring  was  visible  I 
ever  saw  in  any  human  countenance.  She  wore  no  bonnet  or 
veil,  for  the  sun  was  verging  towards  the  west,  and  its  rays 
stole  soft  and  mellow  over  the  golden  waters.  Fair  and  meek 
as  the  virgin  mother's  was  the  brow  that  rose  above  the  silken 
screen,  defined  with  beauteous  distinctness  by  dark,  divided 
hair,  whose  luxuriance  was  confined  by  a  golden  band.  At 
length  they  seated  themselves  very  near  me,  and  began  to 
converse  in  a  low  tone.  There  was  a  melancholy  sweetness  in 
her  accents,  and  I  was  sure  they  were  speaking  of  some  sor 
rowful  theme.  We  were  now  entering  the bay,  and  the 

boat  rocked  and  laboured  as  she  plunged  through  the  increased 
volume  of  the  waters.  Now,  just  visible  on  the  glowing  hori 
zon,  was  the  topmast  of  a  vessel.  On  she  came,  with  sails 
full  spread,  her  canvas  swelling  in  the  breeze,  her  majestic 
outline  softened  by  the  sunset  hues.  The  gentleman  pointed 
out  the  object  to  his  companion,  who  lifted  the  shade  from 
her  brow,  revealing  as  she  did  so,  eyes  of  such  melting  soft  } 
ness,  I  wondered  I  Lad  thought  her  lovely  before.  She  pressed  - 
the  arm  of  the  gentleman,  and  gazed  eagerly  on  the  vessel 
which  now  bore  dowr  '  majestically  near.'  She  rose,  she  bent 
forward  with  earnest  gestures,  her  face  kindled,  and  sparkled 
like  the  waters  themselves.  The  ship  approached  so  near  we 
could  discern  figures  on  the  deck.  The  boat  had  diverged 
from  her  path  to  give  place  to  the  nobler  craft.  She  was  sail 
ing  with  great  rapidity,  and  the  noise  of  the  engine  and  the 


THE   BLIND   GIRI/S   STORY.  79 

dashing  of  the  waves  drowned  the  sound  of  the  voices  near 
me.  I  began  to  feel  a  strange  interest  in  the  vessel  on  which 
the  eyes  of  the  strangers  were  so  earnestly  riveted.  Amid  the' 
figures  that  walked  her  deck,  I  distinguished  one,  which  was 
aloof  from  the  others,  of  a  more  lofty  bearing — a  cloak  was 
gathered  round  him,  and  from  this  circumstance,  together  with 
his  extremely  pallid  complexion,  I  judged  him  to  be  an  in 
valid.  From  the  rapid  motion  of  both  vessels,  it  was  but  ^ 
glance  I  obtained,  after  we  were  near  enough  to  trace  these 
lineaments.  At  this  moment  the  lady  sprang  upon  the  bench 
beneath  the  railing — she  stretched  forth  her  arms,  with  a 
startling  cry.  I  saw  her  for  an  instant,  bending  far  over  the 
edge  of  the  boat.  I  rose  and  rushed  towards  her  to  warn  her 
of  her  danger,  but  a  plunging  sound  in  the  water,  that  closed 
darkly  over  her  sinking  form,  froze  my  veins  with  horror. 
'  Oh  !  my  God  !'  exclaimed  the  father,  '  save  her !  My  daugh 
ter  !  Oh,  my  daughter !'  then  fell  back,  almost  paralyzed,  on 
the  seat.  To  throw  off  my  coat  and  plunge  in  after  the  ill- 
fated  lady,  in  whom  I  had  become  so  painfully  interested,  wag 
an  instantaneous  deed.  Alas  !  all  my  efforts  were  unavailing. 
The  current  was  so  powerful,  I  found  it  in  vain  to  struggle 
with  its  force.  I  relaxed  not,  however,  till  my  failing  strength 
warned  me  that  I  was  seeking  a  grave  for  myself,  without  being 
able  to  rescue  the  victim  for  whom  I  had  willingly  periled  my 
life. 

"  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  grief  of  the  half-distracted 
father.  I  never  left  him  till  he  reached  his  own  home.  What 
a  scene  of  agony  awaited  him  there  !  The  husband  and  brother, 
so  long  absent,  were  returned,  yearning  to  behold  once  more 
that  beloved  being,  whose  involuntary  sin  had  been  so  fearfully 
expiated.  It  was  Clinton  whom  I  had  seen  on  the  vessel's 
deck.  As  he  afterwards  told  me,  the  dazzle  of  the  rays  on 
the  water,  in  that  direction,  had  prevented  him  from  dis 
tinguishing  the  features  for  ever  engraven  on  his  heart.  The 
hoarse  sound  of  *he  waves  swallowed  her  drowning  shriek- 
onward  they  bore  him,  and  he  saw  not  the  fond  arms  tha 
would  have  embraced  him,  even  over  that  watery  chasm.  * 
have  witnessed  many  a  scene  of  sorrow,  but  never  saw  I  one 
like  this.  From  the  peculiar  circumstances  that  brought  ua 
together,  I  became  almost  identified  with  this  unhappy  family. 
Clinton  was  the  most  interesting  man  I  ever  saw.  He  was  a 
confirmed  invalid,  never  having  recovered  from  the  effects  of 
his  wound  I  never  saw  a  smile  upon  his  face,  nor  could  I 


SO  THE   BLIND   GIRI/S   PTORY. 

ever  smile  in  his  presence.  He  seldom  spoke,  and  never  but 
once  did  he  mention  the  name  of  Cecilia.  It  was  one  night 
when  he  was  unusually  ill,  and  I  was  sitting  alone  with  him 
in  his  chamber.  He  gave  me  the  manuscript  for  perusal  which 
is  here  transcribed,  an  act  of  confidence  he  considered  due  to 
me,  who  would  have  been  her  saviour.  Through  the  watches 
of  that  night  he  poured  into  my  ear  the  hoarded  agonies  of 
his  grief.  Never  before  did  I  know  how  deep  human  sorrow 
could  be,  or  how  holy  was  that  love  which  clings  to  the  memory 
of  the  dead. 

"  Alice  dwelt  in  ( the  dark  and  narrow  house.'  She  was 
spared  the  knowledge  of  the  fatal  catastrophe,  for  she  died  be 
fore  her  victim.  Yes — her  victim  !  Had  she  guarded  against 
the  first  inroads  of  a  forbidden  passion,  there  might  have  been 
'  beauty  for  ashes,  the  oil  of  joy  for  mourning,  and  the  gar 
ment  of  praise  for  the  spirit  of  heaviness.'  The  angel  form 
that  lies  low,  wrapped  in  the  winding-sheet  of  the  waves,  might 
now  be  moving  in  the  light  of  loveliness,  love,  and  joy.  But 
who  shall  dare  to  arraign  the  doings  of  the  Almighty  ?" 


THE  PARLOUR  SERPENT. 


MRS.  WENTWORTH  and  Miss  Hart  entered  the  breakfast- 
room  together,  the  latter  speaking  earnestly  and  in  a  low  con 
fidential  tone  to  the  other,  whose  countenance  was  slightly 
discomposed. 

"  There  is  nothing  that  provokes  me  so  much  as  to  hear 
such  remarks,"  said  Miss  Hart,  "  I  have  no  patience  to  listen 
to  them.  Indeed,  I  think  they  are  made  as  much  to  wound 
my  feelings  as  anything  else,  for  they  all  know  the  great  affec 
tion  I  have,  for  you." 

"  But  you  do  not  say  what  the  remarks  were,  that  gave  you 
so  much  pain,"  answered  Mrs.  Wentworth.  "  I  would  much 
prefer  that  you  would  tell  me  plainly,  than  speak  in  such 
vague  hints.  You  will  not  make  me  angry,  for  I  am  entirely 
indifferent  to  the  opinion  of  the  world." 

Now  there  was  not  a  woman  in  the  world  more  sensitively 
alive  to  censure  than  Mrs.  Wentworth,  and  in  proportion  to 
her  sensitiveness,  was  her  anxiety  to  know  the  observations  of 
others. 

"  If  you  had  overheard  Miss  Bentley  and  Miss  Wheeler 
talking  of  you  last  night  as  I  did,"  continued  Miss  Hart,  "you 
would  not  have  believed  your  own  ears.  They  said  they 
thought  it  was  ridiculous  in  you  to  make  such  a  nun  of  your 
self,  because  Captain  Wentworth  was  absent,  and  to  dress  so 
plain  and  look  so  moping.  One  of  them  said,  you  did  not  dar 
to  visit  or  receive  visiters  while  he  was  away,  for  that  you  were 
as  much  afraid  of  him  as  if  you  were  his  slave,  and  that  he  had 
made  you  promise  not  to  stir  out  of  the  house,  or  to  invite  any 
company  while  he  was  gone." 

"  Ridiculous  !  —  nonsense!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wentworth, 
"  there  never  was  such  an  absurd  idea.  Captain  Wentworth 
nuver  imposed  such  a  restraint  upon  me,  though  I  know  he 

(81) 


fc2  THE  PARLOUR   SERPENT. 

would  rather  I  would  live  retired,  when  lie  cannot  attend  me 
himself  in  the  gay  world.  It  is  not  despotism,  hut  affection, 
that  prompts  the  wish,  and  I  am  sure  I  feel  no  pleasure  in 
dressing,  shining,  and  mingling  in  society,  when  he  is  exposed 
to  danger,  and  perhaps  death,  on  the  far  deep  sea." 

"  I  know  all  that,  my  dear  Mrs.  Wentworth,"  replied  Miss 
Hart,  insinuatingly,  "and  so  I  told  them;  but  how  little  can 
a  heartless  and  censorious  world  judge  of  the  feelings  of  the 
refined  and  the  sensitive  !  It  seems  to  be  a  general  impression 
that  you  fear  your  husband  more  than  you  love  him,  and  that 
this  fear  keeps  you  in  a  kind  of  bondage  to  his  will.  If  I  were 
you,  I  would  invite  a  large  party  and  make  it  as  brilliant  as 
possible,  and  be  myself  as  gay  as  possible,  and  then  that  will 
be  giving  the  lie  at  once  to  their  innuendoes." 

"  It  is  so  mortifying  to  have  such  reports  in  circulation,"  said 
Mrs.  Wentworth,  her  colour  becoming  more  and  more  height 
ened  and  her  voice  more  tremulous.  "  I  don't  care  what  they 
say  at  all,  and  yet  I  am  half  resolved  to  follow  your  advice,  if  it 
were  only  to  vex  them.  I  will  do  it,  and  let  them  know  that  I 
am  not  afraid  to  be  mistress  of  my  own  house  while  its  master 
is  absent." 

"  That  is  exactly  the  right  spirit,"  answered  the  delighted 
Miss  Hart;  "  I  am  glad  you  take  it  in  that  way.  I  was  afraid 
your  feelings  would  be  wounded,  and  that  is  the  reason  I  was 
so  unwilling  to  tell  you." 

But  though  Mrs.  Wentworth  boasted  of  her  spirit  and  her 
indifference,  her  feelings  were  deeply  wounded,  and  she  sat  at 
the  breakfast-table,  cutting  her  toast  into  the  most  minute 
pieces,  without  tasting  any,  while  Miss  Hart  was  regaling  her 
self  with  an  unimpaired  appetite,  and  luxuriating  in  fancy  on 
the  delightful  party,  she  had  so  skilfully  brought  into  pro 
mised  existence,  at  least.  She  had  no  idea  of  spending  the 
time  of  her  visit  to  Mrs.  Wentworth,  in  dullness  and  seclusion, 
sympathizing  in  the  anxieties  of  a  fond  and  timid  wife,  and 
listening  to  a  detail  of  domestic  plans  and  enjoyments.  She 
knew  the  weak  side  of  her  character,  and  mingling  the  gall  she 
extracted  from  others,  with  the  honey  of  her  own  flattery,  and 
building  her  influence  on  their  ruined  reputations,  imagined  it' 
firm  and  secure  on  such  a  crumbling  foundation.  It  is  unne 
cessary  to  dwell  on  the  genealogy  of  Miss  Hart.  She  was  well 
known  as  Miss  Hart,  and  yet  it  would  be  very  difficult  for  any 
body  to  tell  precisely  who  Miss  Hart  was.  She  was  a  general 
visitor;  oue  of  those  young  ladies  who  are  always  ready  to  fill 


THE   PARLOUR    SERPENT.  83 

up  any  sudden  vacuum  made  in  a  fairrly — n  kind  of  birr!  of 
passage,  who,  having  no  abiding  place  of  her  own,  went 
fluttering  about,  generally  resting  where  she  could  find  the 
softest  and  most  comfortable  nest.  She  was  what  was  called 
excellent  company,  always  had  something  new  and  interesting 
to  say  about  everybody ;  then  she  knew  so  many  secrets,  and 
had  the  art  of  exciting  a  person's  curiosity  so  keenly,  ar>d 
making  them  dissatisfied  with  everybody  but  herself,  it  would 
be  impossible  to  follow  all  the  windings,  or  discover  all  the 
nooks  and  corners  of  her  remarkable  character.  It  was  astonish 
ing  to  see  the  influence  she  acquired  over  the  minds  of  those 
with  whom  she  associated,  male  as  well  as  female.  She  was 
a  showy,  well-dressing,  attractive-looking  girl,  with  a  great 
deal  of  manner,  a  large,  piercing,  dark  eye,  and  an  uncom 
monly  sweet  and  persuasive  tone  of  voice.  Mrs.  Wentworth 
became  acquainted  with  her  a  very  short  time  before  Captain 
Wentwortb's  departure,  and  esteemed  it  a  most  delightful 
privilege  to  have  such  a  pleasing  companion  to  charm  away 
the  lingering  hours  of  his  absence.  Acting  upon  the  sugges- 
fions  of  her  friend,  and  following  up  the  determination  she  had 
so  much  applauded,  she  opened  her  doors  to  visiters,  and 
appeared  in  society  with  a  gay  dress  and  smiling  countenance. 

"  What  a  change  there  is  in  Mrs.  Wentworth  !"  observed 
Miss  Bentley  to  Miss  Hart,  as  they  met  one  morning  at  the 
house  of  a  mutual  friend.  "  I  never  saw  any  one  so  trans 
formed  in  nay  life.  She  looks  and  dresses  like  the  most  com 
plete  flirt  I  ever  saw ;  I  suspect  Captain  Wentworth  has  very 
good  reason  to  watch  her  as  he  does." 

Miss  Hart  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  smiled  significantly, 
but  did  not  say  anything. 

"  It  must  be  a  very  pleasant  alteration  to  you,"  continued 
Miss  Bentley,  "the  house  seems  to  be  frequented  by  gentle 
men  from  morning  till  night.  I  suppose  you  have  the  grace 
to  appropriate  their  visits  to  yourself." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  about  myself,"  answered  Miss  Hart, 
"  and  I  do  not  wish  to  speak  of  Mrs.  Wentworth  otherwise 
than  kindly.  You  know  she  is  excessively  kind  to  me,  and 
it  would  be  ungrateful  in  me  to  condemn  her  conduct.  To  be 
sure  I  must  have  my  own  thoughts  on  the  subject.  She  is 
certainly  very  imprudent,  and  too  fond  of  admiration.  But 
I  would  not  have  you  repeat  what  I  have  said,  for  the 
world,  for  being  in  the  family  it  would  have  such  weight. 


84  THE  PARLOUR   SERPENT. 

Be  very  careful  what  you  say,  and  above  all,  don't  mention 
my  name." 

Miss  Bentley  was  very  careful  to  repeat  the  rem?rks  to 
every  one  she  saw,  with  as  many  additions  of  her  own  as 
she  pleased,  and  the  unutterable  language  of  the  smile  and  the 
shrug  was  added  too,  to  give  force  to  the  comments.  Mrs. 
Wentworth,  in  the  mean  while,  unconscious  of  the  serpent  she 
was  nursing  in  her  bosom,  suffered  herself  to  be  borne  along 
on  the  current  on  which  she  had  thoughtlessly  embarked, 
without  the  power  to  arrest  her  progress,  or  turn  back  into 
the  quiet  channel  she  had  quitted.  The  arrival  of  her  brother, 
a  gay  and  handsome  young  man,  gave  additional  animation  to 
her  household,  and  company  flowed  in  still  more  continuously. 
Henry  More,  the  brother  of  Mrs.  Wentworth,  was  the 
favourite  of  every  circle  in  which  he  moved.  With  an  uncom 
mon  flow  of  spirits,  a  ready  and  graceful  wit,  a  fluent  and  flat 
tering  tongue,  he  mingled  in  society  unaffected  by  its  contrasts, 
unwounded  by  its  asperities,  and  unruffled  by  its  contentions. 
He  seemed  to  revel  in  the  happy  consciousness  of  being  able 
to  impart  pleasure  to  all,  and  was  equally  willing  to  receive  it. 
He  was  delighted  to  find  a  fine-looking,  amiable  girl,  an  inmate 
of  his  sister's  dwelling,  and  immediately  addressing  her  in  his 
accustomed  strain  of  sportive  gallantry,  found  that  she  not  only 
lent  a  willing  ear,  but  was  well  skilled  in  the  same  language. 
Though  Miss  Hart  was  still  young,  she  had  outlived  the 
romance  and  credulity  of  youth.  She  had  a  precocious 
experience  and  wisdom  in  the  ways  of  this  world.  She  had 
seen  the  affections  of  many  a  young  man,  with  a  disposition 
open  and  ingenuous  as  Henry's,  won  through  the  medium  of 
their  vanity,  by  women,  too,  who  could  not  boast  of  attractions 
equal  to  her  own.  She  believed  that  juxtaposition  could  work 
miracles,  and  as  long  as  they  were  the  inmates  of  the  same 
house,  participating  in  the  same  pleasures,  engaged  in  the  same 
pursuits,  and  often  perusing  the  same  book,  she  feared  no 
rival.  She  rejoiced,  too,  in  the  close-drawing  socialities  of  the 
winter  fireside,  and  delighted  when  a  friendly  storm  compelled 
them  to  find  all  their  enjoyment  within  their  own  little  circle. 
Mrs.  Wentworth,  who  had  once  been  cheerful  and  serene  in 
clouds  as  well  as  sunshine,  was  now  subject  to  fits  of  despond 
ency  and  silence.  It  was  only  when  excited  by  company, 
that  her  eyes  were  lighted  up  with  animation,  and  her  lipa 
with  smiles.  She  dreaded  the  reproaches  of  her  husband  on 
his  return,  for  acting  so  contrary  to  his  wishes,  and  when  she 


THE   PARLOUR    SERPENT.  85 

heard  the  night-gust  sweep  by  her  windows,  and  thought  of 
him  exposed  to  the  warring  elements,  perhaps  even  then  cling 
ing  to  the  drifting  wreck,  or  floating  in  a  watery  grave,  and 
recollected  the  scenes  of  levity  and  folly  in  which  she  was  now 
constantly  acting  a  part,  merely  to  avoid  the  censures  of  the 
very  people  she  detested  aud  despised,  she  sighed  and  wept, 
and  wished  she  had  followed  her  bosom  counsellor,  rather  than 
the  suggestions  of  the  friend  in  whom  she  still  confided,  and 
on  whose  affection  she  relied  with  unwavering  trust.  It 
was  strange,  she  could  hear  Miss  Hart  ridicule  others, 
and  join  in  the  laugh;  she  could  sit  quietly  and  see  her 
breathe  the  subtle  venom  of  slander  over  the  fairest  characters, 
till  they  blackened  and  became  polluted  under  her  touch,  and 
yet  she  felt  herself  as  secure  as  if  she  were  placed  on  the 
summit  of  Mont  Blanc,  in  a  region  of  inaccessible  purity  and 
splendour.  So  blinding  is  the  influence  of  self-love,  pampered 
by  flattery,  strengthened  by  indulgence,  and  unrestrained  by 
religious  principle. 

One  evening,  and  it  chanced  to  be  the  evening  of  the  Sab 
bath  day,  Henry  sat  unusually  silent,  and  Miss  Hart  thought 
that  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  face  with  a  very  deep  and 
peculiar  expression — "  No,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  I  never 
saw  such  a  countenance  in  my  life." 

"  What  do  you  see  so  remarkable  in  it  ?"  asked  she,  laugh 
ing,  delighted  at  what  she  supposed  a  spontaneous  burst  of 
admiration. 

"  I  don't  know;  I  can  no  more  describe  it,  than  one  of  those 
soft,  fleecy  clouds  that  roll  melting  away  from  the  face  of  the 
moon.  But  it  haunts  me  like  a  dream." 

Miss  Hart  modestly  cast  down  her  eyes,  then  turned  them 
towards  the  moon,  which  at  that  moment  gleamed  with  pallid 
lustre  through  the  window. 

"  Your  imagination  is  so  glowing,"  replied  she,  "  that  it 
invests,  like  the  moonlight,  every  object  with  its  own  mellow 
and  beautiful  tints." 

"  Jane,"  continued  he,  without  noticing  the  compliment  t9 
his  imagination,  and  turning  to  his  sister,  who  was  reading 
intently,  "  Jane,  you  must  have  noticed  her — you  were  at  the 
same  church." 

"  Noticed  her  !"  repeated  Miss  Hart  to  herself,  in  utter  dis 
may;  "who  can  he  mean?" 

"  Noticed  who  ?"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth,  laying  down  her 
"book,  "  I  have  not  heard  a  syllable  you  have  been  saying." 


86  THE   PARLOUR    SERPENT. 

"  Why,  that  young  lady  dressed  in  black,  with  such  a  sweet, 
modest,  celestial  expression  of  face.  She  sat  at  the  right  hand 
of  the  pulpit,  with  another  lady  in  mourning,  who  was  very 
tall  and  pale/' 

"  What  coloured  hair  and  eyes  had  she  ?"  asked  his  sister. 

"  I  could  no  more  tell  the  colour  of  her  eyes,  than  I  could 
paint  yon  twinkling  star,  or  her  hair  either.  I  only  know  that 
they  shed  a  kind  of  glory  over  her  countenance,  and  mantled 
her  brow  with  the  softest  and  most  exquisite  shades." 

"I  declare,  Henry,"  cried  Mrs.  Wentworth,  "you  are  the 
most  extravagant  being  I  ever  knew.  I  don't  know  whether 
you  are  in  jest  or  earnest." 

"  Oh  !  you  may  be  sure  he  is  in  earnest,"  said  Miss  Hart. 
I  know  whom  he  means  very  well.  It  is  Miss  Carroll.  Lois  Car 
roll,  the  grand-daughter  of  old  Mr.  Carroll,  the  former  minister 

of church.  The  old  lady  with  whom  she  sat  is  her  aunt. 

They  live  somewhere  in  the  suburbs  of  the  city — but  never  go 
anywhere  except  to  church.  They  say  she  is  the  most  complete 
little  methodist  in  the  world." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  methodist  ?"  asked  Henry  abruptly 
— "an  enthusiast?" 

"  One  who  never  goes  to  the  theatre,  never  attends  the  ball 
room,  thinks  it  a  sin  to  laugh,  and  goes  about  among  poor 
people  to  give  them  doctor's  stuff,  and  read  the  Bible." 

"  Well,"  answered  Henry,  "  I  see  nothing  very  appalling 
in  this  description.  If  ever  I  marry,  I  have  no  very  great 
desire  that  my  wife  should  frequent  the  theatre  or  the  ball 
room.  She  might  admire  artificial  graces  at  the  one  and 
exhibit  them  in  the  other,  but  the  loveliest  traits  of  her  sex 
must  fade  and  wither  in  the  heated  atmosphere  of  both.  And  I 
am  sure  it  is  a  divine  office  to  go  about  ministering  to  the  wants 
of  the  poor  and  healing  the  sick.  As  to  the  last  item,  I  may 
not  be  a  proper  judge,  but  I  do  think  a  beautiful  woman  read 
ing  the  Bible  to  the  afflicted  and  dying,  must  be  the  most 
angelic  object  in  the  universe." 

"  Why,  brother,"  said  Mrs.  Wentworth,  "  what  a  strange 
compound  you  are !  Such  a  rattle-brain  as  you,  moralizing 
like  a.second  Johnson!" 

"  I  may  be  a  wild  rattle-brain,  and  sport  like  a  thousand 
others  in  the  waves  of  fashion,  but  there  is  something  here, 
Jane,"  answered  he,  laying  his  hand  half  seriously,  half 
sportively  on  his  breast,  "  that  tells  me  that  I  was  created  for 
immortality ;  that,  spendthrift  of  time,  I  am  still  bound  for 


THE   PARLOUR   SERPENT.  87 

eternity.  I  have  often  pictured  the  future,  in  my  musing 
hours,  and  imagined  a  woman's  gentle  hand  was  guiding  me 
in  the  path  that  leads  to  heaven." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  looked  at  her  brother  in  astonishment. 
There  was  something  in  the  solemnity  of  his  expressions  that 
alarmed  her,  coming  from  one  so  gay  and  apparently  thought 
less.  Miss  Hart  was  alarmed  too,  but  from  a  different  cause. 
She  thought  it  time  to  aim  her  shaft,  and  she  knew  in  what 
course  to  direct  it. 

"  This  Miss  Carroll,"  said  she,  "  whom  you  admire  so  much, 
has  lately  lost  her  lover,  to  whom  she  was  devotedly  attached. 
He  was  her  cousin,  and  they  had  been  brought  up  together 
from  childhood,  and  betrothed  from  that  period.  She  nursed 
him  during  a  long  sickness,  day  and  night,  and  many  thought 
she  would  follow  him  to  the  grave,  her  grief  was  so  great." 

"  Her  lover  l'f  exclaimed  Henry,  in  a  mock  tragedy  tone. 
"  Then  it  is  all  over  with  me — I  never  would  accept  the  second 
place  in  any  maiden's  heart,  even  if  I  could  be  enshrined 
there  in  heaven's  crystal.  Give  me  the  rose  before  the  sun 
beams  have  exhaled  the  dew  of  the  morning,  or  it  wears  no 
charms  for  me." 

Miss  Hart  and  Mrs.  Wentworth  laughed,  rallied  Henry  upon 
his  heroics,  and  the  beautiful  stranger  was  mentioned  no  more. 
Miss  Hart  congratulated  herself  upon  the  master  stroke  by 
which  she  had  dispelled  his  enchantment,  if  indeed  it  existed 
at  all.  She  had  often  heard  Henry  declare  his  resolution  never 
to  marry  a  woman  who  had  acknowledged  a  previous  affection, 
and  she  seized  upon  a  vague  report  of  Miss  Carroll's  being  in 
mourning  for  a  cousin  who  had  recently  died,  and  to  whom 
she  thought  she  might  possibly,  be  betrothed,  and  presented  it 
as  a  positive  truth.  Finding  that  Henry's  ideas  of  female 
perfection  were  very  different  from  what  she  had  imagined, 
she  was  not  sorry  when  an  opportunity  offered  of  displaying 
those  domestic  virtues,  which  he  so  much  extolled.  One 
night,  when  Mrs.  Wentworth  was  prepared  to  attend  a  private 
ball,  she  expressed  her  wish  to  remain  at  home,  declaring  tha 
she  was  weary  of  dissipation,  and  preferred  reading  and  medi 
tation.  She  expected  Henry  would  steal  away  from  the  party, 
and  join  her  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  but  her  real  motive 
was  a  violent  toothache,  which  she  concealed  that  she  might 
have  the  credit  of  a  voluntary  act.  After  Mrs.  Wcntworth's 
departure,  she  bound  a  handkerchief  round  her  aching  jaw, 
and  having  found  relief  from  some  powerful  anodyne,  she 


88  THE   PARLOUR    SERPENT. 

reclined  back  on  the  sofa  and  fell  at  last  into  a  deep  sleep.  Th 
candles  burned  dim  from  their  long,  unsnuffed  wicks,  and  threw 
a  very  dubious  light  through  the  spacious  apartment.  She 
was  awakened  by  a  tall,  dark  figure,  bending  over  her,  with 
outspread  arms,  as  if  about  to  embrace  her,  and  starting  up, 
her  first  thought  was  that  it  was  Henry,  who  had  stolen  on 
her  solitude,  and  was  about  to  declare  the  love  she  had  no 
doubt  he  secretly  cherished  for  her.  But  the  figure  drew  back, 
with  a  sudden  recoil,  when  she  rose,  and  uttered  her  name  in 
a  tone  of  disappointment. 

"  Captain  Wentworth,"  exclaimed  she,  "  is  it  you  ?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he,  extending  his  hand  cordially 
towards  her,  "  I  thought  for  a  moment  it  was  my  wife,  my 
Jane,  Mrs.  Wentworth — where  is  she  ?  Is  she  well  ?  Why 
do  I  not  see  her  here  ?" 

"  Oh !  Captain  Wentworth,  she  had  no  expectation  of  your 
coming  so  soon.  She  is  perfectly  well.  She  is  gone  to  a  qua 
drille  party,  and  will  probably  not  be  at  home  for  several  hours 
— I  will  send  for  her  directly." 

"  No,  Miss  Hart,"  said  he,  in  a  cold  and  altered  voice,  "  no, 
I  would  not  shorten  her  evening's  amusement.  A  quadrille 
party — I  thought  she  had  no  taste  for  such  pleasures." 

"  She  seems  to  enjoy  them  very  much,"  replied  Miss  Hart, 
"  and  it  is  very  natural  she  should.  She  is  young  and  hand 
some,  and  very  much  admired,  and  in  your  absence  she  found 
her  own  home  compafatively  dull." 

The  captain  rose,  and  walked  the  room  with  a  sailor's 
manly  stride.  His  brows  were  knit,  his  lips  compressed,  and 
his  cheek  flushed.  She  saw  the  iron  of  jealousy  was  entering 
his  soul,  and  she  went  on  mercilessly  deepening  the  wound 
she  had  made. 

"  You  will  be  delighted  when  you  see  Mrs.  Wentworth — 
she  looks  so  blooming  and  lovely.  You  have  reason  to  be 
quite  proud  of  your  wife — she  is  the  belle  of  every  party  and 
ball-room.  I  think  it  is  well  that  you  have  returned."  This 
she  added,  with  an  arch,  innocent  smile,  though  she  knew  every 
word  she  uttered  penetrated  like  a  dagger,  where  he  was  most 
vulnerable.  "  How  thoughtless  I  am  !"  she  exclaimed ;  "  you 
must  be  weary  and  hungry — I  will  order  your  supper." 

"  No,  no,"  said  he,  "  I  have  no  appetite — I  will  not  trouble 
you.  Don't  disturb  yourself  on  my  account — I  will  amuse 
myself  with  a  book  till  she  returns." 

He  sat  down  and  took  up  a  book,  but  his  eyes  were  fixed 


THE   PARLOUR   SERPENT.  89 

moodily  on  the  carpet,  and  his  hands  trembled  as  he  uncon 
sciously  turned  the  leaves.  Miss  Hart  suffered  occasional 
agony  from  her  tooth,  the  more  as  she  had  taken  off  the  dis 
figuring  bandage,  but  she  would  not  retire,  anticipating  with 
a  kind  of  savage  delight,  the  unpleasant  scene  that  would  ensue 
on  Mrs.  Wentworth's  return.  The  clock  struck  twelve  before 
the  carriage  stopped  at  the  door.  Mrs.  Wentworth  came 
lightly  into  the  room,  unaccompanied  by  her  brother,  her  cloak 
falling  from  her  shoulders,  her  head  uncovered,  most  fashion 
ably  and  elegantly  dressed.  She  did  not  see  her  husband 
when  she  first  entered,  and  throwing  her  cloak  on  a  chair, 
exclaimed,  "  Oh  !  Miss  Hart,  I'm  so  sorry  you  were  not  there, 
we  had  such  a  delightful  party — the  pleasantest  of  the  whole 
season."  Her  eye  at  this  moment  fell  upon  her  husband, 
who  had  risen  upon  her  entrance,  but  stood  back  in  the  shade, 
without  making  one  step  to  meet  her.  With  a  scream  of  sur 
prise,  joy,  and  perhaps  terror  too,  she  rushed  towards  him,  and 
threw  her  arms  around  him.  He  suffered  her  clinging  arms  to 
remain  round  his  neck  for  a  moment  while  he  remained  as  pas 
sive  as  the  rock  on  the  seabeat  shore  when  the  white  foam 
wreathes  and  curls  over  its  surface,  then  drawing  back,  he  looked 
her  steadfastly  in  the  face,  with  a  glance  that  made  her  own  to 
quail,  and  her  lip  and  cheek  blanch.  She  looked  down  upon 
her  jewelled  neck  and  airy  robes,  and  wished  herself  clothed 
in  sackcloth  and  ashes.  She  began  to  stammer  forth  some 
excuse  for  her  absence,  something  about  his  unexpected 
return,  but  the  sentence  died  on  her  lips.  The  very  blood 
seemed  to  congeal  in  her  heart,  under  the  influence  of  his 
freezing  glance. 

"  Don't  say  anything,  Jane,"  said  he,  sternly.  "  It  is 
better  as  it  is — I  had  deluded  myself  with  the  idea,  that  in  all 
my  dangers  and  hardships,  to  which  I  have  exposed  myself 
chiefly  for  your  sake,  I  had  a  fond  and  faithful  wife,  who  pined 
at  my  absence  and  yearned  for  my  return.  I  was  not  aware 
of  the  new  character  you  had  assumed.  No,"  continued  be 
impetuously,  entirely  forgetful  of  the  presence  of  Miss  Hart 
"  I  was  not  prepared  for  a  welcome  like  this.  I  expected  to 
have  met  a  wife — not  a  flirt,  a  belle,  a  vain,  false-hearted, 
deceitful  woman."  Thus  saying,  he  suddenly  left  the  room, 
slosing  the  door  with  a  force  that  made  every  article  of  the 
furniture  tremble.  Mrs.  Wentworth,  bursting  into  hysterical 
sobs,  was  about  to  rush  after  him,  but  Miss  Hart  held  her 
back  — "  Don't  be  a  fool/'  said  she;  "  he'll  get  over  it  directly 


90  THE  PARLOUR   SERPEN'T. 

— you've  done  nothing  at  which  he  ought  to  be  angry ;  I  had 
no  idea  he  was  such  a  tyrant." 

"  He  was  always  kind  to  me  before,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Went- 
worth.  "  He  thinks  my  heart  is  weaned  from  him.  Now,  I 
wish  I  had  disregarded  the  sneer  of  the  world  !  It  can  never 
repay  me  for  the  loss  of  his  love." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Wentworth,"  said  Miss  Hart,  putting  her 
rms  soothingly  round  her,  "  I  feel  for  you  deeply,  but  I  hope 
'you  will  not  reproach  yourself  unnecessarily,  or  suffer  your 
husband  to  suppose  you  condemn  your  own  conduct.  If  you 
do,  he  will  tyrannize  over  you,  through  life — what  possible 
harm  could  there  be  in  your  going  to  a  private  party  with  your 
own  brother,  when,  you  did  not  look  for  his  return  ?  You  have 
taken  no  more  liberty  than  every  married  lady  in  the  city  would 
have  done,  and  a  husband  who  really  loved  his  wife,  would  be 
pleased  and  gratified  that  she  should  be  an  object  of  attention 
and  admiration  to  others.  Come,  dry  up  your  tears,  and  exert 
the  pride  and  spirit  every  woman  of  delicacy  and  sense  should 
exercise  on  such  occasions." 

Mrs.  Wentworth  listened,  and  the  natural  pride  and  way 
wardness  of  the  human  heart  strengthening  the  counsels  of  her 
treacherous  companion,  her  sorrow  and  contrition  became 
merged  in  resentment.  She  resolved  to  return  coldness  for 
coldness  and  scorn  for  scorn,  to  seek  no  reconciliation,  nor 
even  to  grant  it,  until  he  humbly  sued  for  her  forgiveness. 
The  husband  and  wife  met  at  the  breakfast-table  without 
speaking.  Henry  was  unusually  taciturn,  and  the  whole 
burthen  of  keeping  up  the  conversation  rested  on  Miss  Hart, 
who  endeavoured  to  entertain  and  enliven  the  whole.  Captain 
Wentworth,  who  had  all  the  frankness  and  politeness  of  a 
sailor,  unbent  his  stern  brow  when  he  addressed  her,  and  it 
was  in  so  kind  a  voice,  that  the  tears  started  into  his  wife's 
eyes  at  the  sound.  He  had  no  words,  no  glance  for  her,  from 
whom  he  had  been  parted  so  long,  and  whom  he  had  once 
loved  so  tenderly.  Henry,  who  had  been  absorbed  in  his  own 
reflections,  and  who  had  not  been  present  at  their  first  meeting, 
now  noticed  the  silence  of  his  sister,  and  the  gloom  of  IKT 
husband,  and  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  first  in  astonish 
ment,  and  then  in  mirth,  he  exclaimed,  "Well,  I  believe  I 
shall  remain  a  bachelor,  if  this  is  a  specimen  of  a  matrimonial 
meeting.  Jane  looks  as  if  she  were  doing  penance  for  the 
sins  of  her  whole  life,  and  Captain  Wentworth  as  if  he  were 
about  to  give  a  broadside's  thunder.  What  has  happened? 


THE   PARLOUR   SERPENT.  91 

Miss  Hart  resembles  a  beam  of  sunshine  between  two 
clouds." 

Had  Henry  been  aware  of  the  real  state  of  things,  he  would 
never  have  indulged  his  mirth  at  the  expense  of  his  sister's 
feelings.  He  had  no  suspicion  that  the  clouds  to  which  he 
alluded,  arose  from  estrangement  from  each  other,  and  when 
Mrs.  Wentworth  burst  into  tears  and  left  the  table,  and  Cap 
tain  Wentworth  set  back  his  chair  so  suddenly  as  to  upset  the 
teaboard  and  produce  a  terrible  crash  among  the  china,  the 
smile  forsook  his  lips,  and,  turning  to  the  captain  in  rather  an 
authoritative  manner,  he  demanded  an  explanation. 

"  Ask  your  sister,"  answered  the  captain,  "  and  she  may 
give  it — as  for  me,  sir,  my  feelings  are  not  to  be  made  a  sub 
ject  of  unfeeling  merriment.  They  have  been  already  too 
keenly  tortured,  and  should  at  least  be  sacred  from  your  jest. 
But  one  thing  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  if  you  had  had  more 
regard  to  your  sister's  reputation,  than  to  have  escorted  her  to 
scenes  of  folly  and  corruption  during  her  husband's  absence, 
you  might  perhaps  have  spared  me  the  misery  I  now  endure." 

"  Do  you  threaten  me,  Captain  Wentworth  ?"  said  Henry, 
advancing  nearer  to  him  with  a  flushed  brow  and  raised  tone. 
Miss  Hart  here  interposed,  and  begged  and  entreated,  and 
laid  her  hand  on  Henry's  arm,  and  looked  softly  and  im 
ploringly  at  Captain  Wentworth,  who  snatched  up  his  hat  and 
left  the  room,  leaving  Henry  angry,  distressed,  and  bewildered. 
Miss  Hart  explained  the  whole  as  the  most  causeless  and  ridi 
culous  jealousy,  which  would  soon  pas?  away  and  was  not 
worth  noticing,  and  urged  him  to  treat  the  matter  as  unworthy 
of  indignation.  She  feared  she  had  carried  matters  a  little  too 
far ;  she  had  no  wish  that  they  should  fight,  and  Henry,  per 
haps,  fall  a  victim  to  excited  passions.  She  was  anxious  to 
allay  the  storm  she  had  raised,  and  she  succeeded  in  prevent 
ing  the  outbreakings  of  wrath,  but  she  could  not  restore  the 
happiness  she  had  destroyed,  the  domestic  peace  she  had 
disturbed,  the  love  and  confidence  she  had  so  wantonly  invaded. 
Nor  did  she  desire  it.  Incapable  herself  of  feeling  happiness 
from  the  evil  passions  that  reigned  in  her  bosom,  she  looked  upon 
the  bliss  of  others  as  a  personal  injury  to  herself;  and  where 
the  flowers  were  fairest  and  the  hopes  the  brightest,  she  loved 
to  trample  and  shed  her  blasting  influence.  As  the  serpent 
goes  trailing  its  dark  length  through  the  long  grasses  and  sweet 
blossoms  that  veil  its  path,  silent  and  deadly,  she  glided  amid 
the  sacred  shades  of  domestic  life,  darting  in  ambush  her 


92  THE  PARLOUR   SERPENT. 

vcnomed  sting,  and  winding  her  coil  in  the  very  bosoms  that 
warmed'and  caressed  her.  She  now  flitted  about,  describing 
what  she  called  the  best  and  most  ridiculous  scene  imaginable ; 
and  the  names  of  Captain  Wentworth  and  his  wife  were  bandied 
from  lip  to  lip,  one  speaking  of  him  as  a  tyrant,  a  bear,  a 
domestic  tiger — another  of  her  as  a  heartless  devotee  of 
fashion,  or  a  contemner  of  the  laws  of  God  and  man.  Most 
truly  has  it  been  said  in  holy  writ,  that  the  tongue  of  the 
slanderer  is  set  on  fire  of  hell,  nor  can  the  waters  of  the  mul 
titudinous  sea  quench  its  baleful  flames.  One  evening  Henry 
was  returning  at  a  late  hour  from  the  country,  and  passing  a 
mansion  in  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  whose  shaded  walls  and 
modest  situation  called  up  ideas  of  domestic  comfort  and  retire 
ment;  he  thought  it  might  be  the  residence  of  Miss  Carroll, 
for,  notwithstanding  Miss  Hart's  damper,  he  had  not  forgotten 
her.  He  passed  the  house  very  slowly,  gazing  at  one 
illuminated  window,  over  which  a  white  muslin  curtain  softly 
floated,  and  wishing  he  could  catch  another  glimpse  of  a  coun 
tenance  that  haunted  him,  as  he  said,  like  a  dream.  All  was 
still,  and  he  passed  on,  through  a  narrow  alley  that  shortened 
his  way.  At  the  end  of  the  alley  was  a  small,  low  dwelling, 
where  a  light  still  glimmered,  and  the  door  being  partially 
open,  he  heard  groans  and  wailing  sounds,  indicating  distress 
within.  He  approached  the  door,  thinking  he  might  render  relief 
or  assistance,  and  stood  at  the  threshold,  gazing  on  the  unex 
pected  scene  presented  to  his  view.  On  a  low  seat,  not  far 
from  the  door,  sat  a  young  lady,  in  a  loose  white  robe,  thrown 
around  her  in  evident  haste  and  disorder,  her  hair  partly 
knotted  up  behind  and  partly  falling  in  golden  waves  on  her 
shoulders,  holding  in  her  lap  a  child  of  about  three  years  old, 
from  whose  bandaged  head  the  blood  slowly  oozed  and  dripped 
down  on  her  snowy  dress — one  hand  was  placed  tenderly  under 
the  wounded  head,  the  other  gently  wiped  away  the  stains  from 
its  bloody  brow.  A  woman,  whose  emaciated  features  and 
sunken  eyes  spoke  the  ravages  of  consumption,  sat  leaning 
against  the  wall,  gazing  with  a  ghastly  expression  on  the  little 
sufferer,  whose  pains  she  had  no  power  to  relieve,  and  a  little 
boy  about  ten  years  of  age  stood  near  her,  weeping  bitterly. 
Here  was  a  scene  of  poverty,  and  sickness,  and  distress  that 
baffled  description,  and  in  the  midst  appeared  the  outlines  of 
that  fair  figure,  like  a  descended  angel  of  mercy,  sent  down  to 
console  the  sorrows  of  humanity. 

"This  was   a   dreadful   accident,"    said  the  young  lady, 


THE   PARLOUR    SERPENT.  Q'a 

"  dreadful,"  raising  her  bead  as  she  spoke,  and  shading  back 
her  hair,  revealing  at  the  same  time  the  heavenly  coun 
tenance  which  had  once  before  beamed  on  Henry's  gaze.  It 
was  Lois  Carroll,  true  to  the  character  Miss  Hart  had  sar 
castically  given  her,  a  ministering  spirit  of  compassion  and 
benevolence. 

"  She  will  die,"  said  the  poor  mother,  "  she'll  never  get  over 
such  a  blow  as  that.  She  fell  with  such  force,  and  struck  her 
head  on  such  a  dangerous  part  too.  Well,  why  should  I  wish 
her  to  live,  when  I  must  leave  her  behind  so  soon  ?" 

"  The  doctor  said  there  was  some  hope,"  answered  the 
fair  Lois,  in  a  sweet,  soothing  voice,  "  and  if  it  is  Grod's  will 
that  she  should  recover,  you  ought  to  bless  Him  for  it,  and 
trust  Him  who  feedeth  the  young  ravens  when  they  cry  to 
Him  for  food.  Lie  down  and  compose  yourself  to  rest.  I  wili 
remain  here  through  the  night,  and  nurse  the  poor  little 
patient.  If  she  is  kept  very  quiet,  I  think  she  will  be  better 
in  the  morning." 

"  How  kind,  how  good  you  are  !"  said  the  mother,  wiping 
the  tear  from  her  wasted  cheek,  "  what  should  I  do  without 
you?  But  I  never  can  think  of  your  sitting  up  the  whole 
night  for  us." 

"And  why  not  for  you?"  asked  Lois,  earnestly.  "Can  I 
ever  repay  your  kindness  to  poor  Charles,  when  he  was  sick, 
and  you  sat  up,  night  after  night,  and  refused  to  leave  him  ? 
And  now,  when  you  are  sick  and  helpless,  would  you  deprive 
me  of  the  opportunity  of  doing  for  you,  what  you  have  done 
for  one  so  dear  to  me  ?" 

A  pang  shot  through  Henry's  heart.  This  poor  Charles 
must  have  been  the  lover  for  whom  she  mourned,  and  at  the 
mention  of  his  name,  he  felt  as  if  wakening  from  a  dream 
The  love  that  bound  the  living  to  the  dead,  was  a  bond  his 
hand  would  never  attempt  to  loosen,  and  turning  away  with  a 
sigh,  he  thought  it  would  be  sacrilege  to  linger  there  longer. 
Still  he  looked  back  to  catch  one  more  glimpse  of  a  face  where 
all  the  beatitudes  dwelt.  He  had  beheld  the  daughters  of 
beauty,  with  all  the  charms  of  nature  aided  by  the  fascinations 
of  art  and  fashion,  but  never  had  he  witnessed  anything  so 
lovely  as  this  young  girl,  in  her  simplicity,  purity,  and  gentle 
ness,  unconscious  that  any  eye  was  upon  her,  but  the  poor 
widow's  and  weeping  orphan's.  He  had  seen  a  fair  belle  iu 
ill-humour  for  an  hour,  because  a  slight  accident  had  soiled  a 
new  dress,  or  defaced  a  new  ornament,  but  Lois  sat  in  her 
107 


94  THE   PARLOUR   SERPENT. 

blood-spotted  robes,  regardless  of  the  stains,  intent  only  on  tho 
object  of  her  tenderness,  and  that  a  miserable  child. 

"  Surely,"  thought  he,  as  he  pursued  his  way  homeward, 
"  there  must  be  a  divine  influence  operating  on  the  heart,  when 
a  character  like  this  is  formed.  Even  were  her  affections  free 
and  not  wedded  to  the  dead,  I  should  no  more  dare  to  love 
such  a  being,  so  spiritual,  so  holy,  so  little  of  the  earth,  earthy, 
than  one  of  those  pure  spirits  that  live  in  the  realms  of  ether. 
I!  what  has  my  life  hitherto  been  ?  Nothing  but  a  tissue 
of  recklessness,  folly,  and  madness.  I  have  been  trying 
to  quench  the  heaven-born  spark  Avithin  me,  but  it  still  burns, 
and  will  continue  to  burn,  while  the  throne  of  the  Everlasting 
endures." 

Henry  felt  more,  reflected  more  that  night,  than  he  had 
done  for  five  years  before.  He  rose  in  the  morning  with  a 
fixed  resolve,  to  make  that  night  an  era  in  his  existence. 
During  the  day  the  poor  widow's  heart  was  made  to  "  sing ' 
for  joy,"  for  a  supply  was  received  from  an  unknown  hand, 
so  bounteous  and  unlocked  for,  she  welcomed  it  us  a  gift  from 
heaven.  And  so  it  was,  for  heaven  inspired  and  also  blessed 
the  act. 

Miss  Hart  began  to  be  uneasy  at  Henry's  deportment, 
and  she  had  no  reason  to  think  she  advanced  in  his  good 
graces,  and  she  had  a  vague  fear  of  that  Lois  Carroll,  whom 
she  trusted  she  had  robbed  of  all  power  to  fascinate  his 
imagination. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  she  to  him,  one  day,  as  if  struck  by  a 
sudden  thought,  "  have  you  seen  that  pretty  Miss  Carroll  since 
the  evening  you  were  speaking  of  her  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Henry,  colouring  very  high,  "  I  have  met, 
her  several  times — why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  No  matter,"  said  she,  petrified  at  this  information ;  "I  saw 
a  lady  yesterday,  who  knows  her  intimately,  and  her  conversa 
tion  reminded  me  of  ours  on  the  same  subject." 

"  What  does  the  lady  say  of  her  character  ?"  asked  Henry. 

"  What  every  one  else  does,  who  knows  her — that  she  is  the 
greatest  hypocrite  that  ever  breathed.  Perfectly  selfish,  self- 
righteous,  and  uncharitable.  She  says,  notwithstanding  her 
sweet  countenance,  she  has  a  very  bad  temper,  and  that  no  one 
is  willing  to  live  in  the  same  house  with  her." 

'•  You  told  me  formerly,"  said  Henry,  "  that  -she  was 
over  charitable  and  kind,  constantly  engaged  in  labours  of 
love." 


THE   PARLOUR   SERPENT.  95 

"  Oh,   yes  !"    answered   she,  with   perfect    self-possession ; 
*  there  is  no  end  to  the  parade  she  makes  about  her  good  works, 
as  she  calls  them,  but  it  is  for  ostentation,  and  to  obtain  the 
reputation  of  a  saint,  that  she  does  them." 

"  But,"  said  Henry,  very  warmly,  "  supposing  she  exercised 
this  same  heavenly  charity  when  she  believed  no  eye  beheld 
her,  but  the  poor  whom  she  relieved,  and  the  sick  whom  sh 
healed,  and  the  God  whom  she  adores;  would  you  call  tha 
ostentation  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Mr.  More,"  cried  Miss  Hart,  with  a  musical 
laugh,  "  you  do  not  know  half  the  arts  of  the  sex.  There  is 
a  young  minister  and  young  physician  too,  in  the  neighbour 
hood,  who  know  all  her  secret  movements,  and  hear  her  praises 
from  morning  till  night — they  say  they  are  both  in  love  with 
her,  but  as  her  cousin  hasn't  been  dead  long,  she  thinks  it 
proper  to  be  very  demure — I  must  say  frankly  and  honestly,  I 
have  no  faith  in  these  female  Tartuffes." 

"  Nor  I  neither,"  added  Henry,  with  so  peculiar  a  manner, 
that  Miss  Hart  started  and  looked  inquisitively  at  him,  with 
her  dark,  dilated  eyes.  She  feared  she  had  hazarded  too 
much,  and  immediately  observed, 

"  Perhaps,  in  my  abhorrence  of  duplicity  and  hypocrisy,  I 
run  into  the  opposite  extreme,  and  express  my  sentiments  too 
openly.  You  think  me  severe,  but  I  can  have  no  possible 
motive  to  depreciate  Miss  Carroll,  but  as  she  herself  stretches 
every  one  on  the  bed  of  Procrustes,  I  feel  at  liberty  to  speak 
my  opinion  of  her  character,  not  mine  only,  but  that  of  the 
whole  world." 

Henry  made  some  evasive  reply,  and  turned  the  conversa 
tion  to  another  topic,  leaving  Miss  Hart  lost  in  a  labyrinth  of 
conjecture,  as  to  the  impression  she  had  made  on  his  mind — • 
where  and  when  had  he  met  Lois  Carroll,  and  why  was  he  so 
reserved  upon  a  theme,  upon  which  he  had  once  been  so  elo 
quent  ? 

She  sat  for  half  an  hour  after  Henry  left  her,  pondering 
on  these  things,  and  looking  at  one  figure  in  the  carpet,  as 
if  her  eyes  grew  upon  the  spot,  when  her  thoughts  were 
turned  into  another  channel  by  the  entrance  of  Captain  Went- 
worth. 

She  believed  that  she  stood  very  high  in  his  favour;  for  he 
was  extremely  polite  to  her,  and  showed  her  so  much  deference 
and  attention,  that  she  had  no  doubt  that  if  Mrs.  Wentworth 
were  out  of  the  way,  he  would  be  at  no  loss  whom  to  choose 


96  THE  PARLOUR   SERPENT. 

as  a  successor.  Her  prospects  with  Henry  grew  more  and 
more  dubious — she  thought,  upon  the  whole,  the  captain  the 
finer-looking  and  most  agreeable  man  of  the  two.  There  was 
no  knowing  but  he  might  separate  from  his  wife,  and  as  they 
seemed  divorced  in  heart,  she  thought  it  would  be  much  bet 
ter  than  to  remain  together  so  cold  and  distant  to  each  other. 
There  was  nothing  she  feared  so  much  as  a  reconciliation ;  and  as 
long  as  she  could  prevent  Mrs.  Wentworth  from  manifesting  any 
symptoms  of  submission  and  sorrow,  she  was  sure  her  husband's 
pride  would  be  unyielding.  She  had  a  scheme  on  hand  at 
present,  which  would  promote  her  own  gratification,  and  widen 
the  breach  between  them. 

There  was  a  celebrated  actor  in  the  city,  whom  she  was 
very  desirous  of  seeing,  and  of  whom  Captain  Wentworth  had 
a  particular  dislike ;  he  disliked  the  theatre  and  everything 
connected  with  it,  and  Miss  Hart  had  vainly  endeavoured  to 
persuade  Mrs.  Wentworth  to  go  with  her  brother,  in  open 
defiance  of  her  husband.  Henry  manifested  no  disposition 
himself,  and  never  would  understand  the  oblique  hints  she 
gave  him ;  she  was  determined  to  make  a  bold  attack  upon  the 
captain  himself. 

"  Captain  Wentworth,"  said  she,  carelessly  looking  over  the 
morning  paper,  "don't  you  mean  to  take  Mrs.  Wentworth  to 
see  this  superb  actor  ?  she  is  dying  to  see  him,  and  yet  does 
not  like  to  ask  you." 

"She's  at  perfect  liberty  to  go  as  often  as  she  pleases," 
replied  the  captain  coldly — "  I've  no  wish  to  control  her  in 
clinations." 

"  But  she  will  not  go,  of  course,  unless  you  accompany  her," 
replied  Miss  Hart,  "  not  even  with  her  brother." 

"  Did  she  commission  you  to  make  this  request  ?" 

"Not  precisely;  but  knowing  her  wishes,  I  could  not  for 
bear  doing  it,  even  at  the  risk  of  your  displeasure." 

"  If  her  heart  is  in  such  scenes,  there  can  be  no  possible 
gratification  to  confine  her  body  within  the  precincts  of  home." 

The  captain  walked  several  times  up  and  down  the  room, 
as  was  his  custom  when  agitated,  then  abruptly  asked  Miss 
Hart  if  she  wished  to  go  herself. 

She  wished  it,  she  said,  merely  to  avoid  singularity,  as  every 
body  else  went  j  but  had  it  not  been  for  Mrs.  Wentworth,  she 
would  never  have  mentioned  it. 

The  captain  declared  that  if  she  had  the  slightest  desire, 


THE  PARLOUR   SERPENT.  97 

it  was  a  command  to  him,  and  the  tickets  were  accordingly 
purchased. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  Captain  Wentworth  sat  in  the  dining- 
rooin,  reading.  As  the  sun  drew  near  the  horizon,  and  the 
light  grew  fainter,  he  sat  down  in  a  recess  by  a  window,  and 
the  curtain  falling  down,  completely  concealed  him.  In  this 
position  he  remained  while  the  twilight  darkened  around  hirn, 
and  no  longer  able  to  read,  he  gave  himself  up  to  those  dark 
and  gloomy  reflections  which  had  lately  filled  his  mind.  He 
thought  of  the  hours  when,  tossed  upon  the  foaming  billows,  he 
had  turned  in  heart  towards  his  home, 

"  And  she,  the  dim  and  melancholy  star, 
Whose  ray  of  beauty  reached  him  from  afar," 

rose  upon  the  clouds  of  memory,  with  soft  and  gilding  lustre. 
Now  he  was  safely  anchored  in  the  haven  of  his  hopes  and 
wishes,  but  his  soul  was  drifted  by  storms,  wilder  than  any 
that  swept  the  boisterous  seas.  The  very  efibrt  of  preserving 
outward  calmness,  only  made  the  tempest  fiercer  within.  This 
new  instance  of  his  wife's  unconquerable  levity  and  heartless- 
ness,  filled  him  with  despair.  He  believed  her  too  much 
demoralized  by  vanity  and  love  of  pleasure,  ever  to  return  to 
her  duty  and  allegiance  as  a  wife. 

While  indulging  these  bitter  feelings,  Miss  Hart  and  Mrs. 
Wentworth  entered  the  dining-room,  unaware  of  his  presence. 
Miss  Hart,  as  usual,  was  speaking  in  an  earnest,  confi- 
fidential  tone,  as  if  she  feared  some  one  was  listening  to  her 
counsels. 

"  I  beg,  I  entreat,"  said  she,  "  that  you  would  rally  your 
spirits,  and  not  let  the  world  see  that  you  are  cast  down  by  his 
ill  treatment.  All  the  fashionable  people  will  be  there. to 
night,  and  you  must  remember  that  many  eyes  will  be  upon 
you ;  and  pray  don't  wear  that  horrid  unbecoming  dress,  it 
makes  a  perfect  fright  of  you,  muffling  you  up  to  the  chin." 

"  It  is  no  matter,"  replied  Mrs.  Wentworth,  despondingly, 
'  I  don't  care  how  I  look — the  only  eyes  I  ever  really  wished 
to  charm,  now  turn  from  me  in  disgust;  I'm  weary  of  acting 
the  part  of  a  hypocrite,  of  smiling  and  chattering,  and  talking 
nonsense,  when  I  feel  as  if  my  heart  were  breaking.  Ob  ! 
that  I  had  not  weakly  yielded  my  better  reason  to  that  fear  of 
the  world's  censure,  which  has  been  the  ruin  of  my  happiness." 

"  I  would  never  suffer  my  happiness  to  be  affected  one  way  or 


pg  THE  PARLOUR   SERPENT. 

the  other,"  cried  Miss  Hart,  "by  a  man  who  showed  so  little 
tenderness  or  delicacy  towards  me.  I  wonder  your  affection 
is  not  chilled,  nay  utterly  destroyed  by  his  harshness  and 
despotism/' 

"  Oh  !  you  little  know  the  strength  or  depth  of  a  woman's 
love,  if  you  deem  it  so  soon  uprooted.  My  heart  yearns  to  be 
admitted  once  more  into  the  foldings  of  his — a  hundred  times 
Have  I  been  tempted  to  throw  myself  into  his  arms,  implore  his 
forgiveness,  and  entreat  him  to  commence  a  new  life  of  confi 
dence  and  love." 

Miss  Hart  began  to  laugh  at  this  romantic  speech,  but  the 
laugh  froze  on  her  lips  when  she  saw  the  window-curtains  sud 
denly  part,  and  Captain  Wentworth  rushing  forward,  clasp  his 
astonished  wife  in  his  arms,  exclaiming  "  Jane,  dear  Jane,  that 
life  is  begun  !"  He  could  not  utter  another  word. 

When,  after  a  1'ew  moments  of  intense  emotion,  he  raised 
his  head,  tears  which  were  no  stain  upon  his  manhood,  were 
glistening  on  his  dark  cheek.  Miss  Hart  looked  on  with  feel 
ings  similar  to  those  which  we  may  suppose  animate  the  spirits 
of  darkness,  when  they  witness  the  restoration  of  man  to  the 
forfeited  favour  of  his  Maker.  There  was  wormwood  and  bit 
terness  in  her  heart,  but  her  undaunted  spirit  still  saw  a  way 
of  extrication  from  all  her  difficulties. 

"  Really,  Captain  "Wentworth,"  exclaimed  she,  laughing  vio 
lently,  "  the  next  time  you  hide  yourself  behind  a  curtain,  you 
must  draw  your  boots  under ;  I  saw  the  cloven  foot  peeping 
out,  and  spoke  of  you  as  I  did,  just  to  see  what  Mrs.  Went 
worth  would  say,  and  I  thought  very  likely  it  would  have  a 
happy  result — I  am  sure  this  is  a  finer  scene  than  any  we  shall 
see  at  the  theatre." 

"That  you  have  deceived  me,  Miss  Hart,"  answered  the 
captain,  "  I  acknowledge  to  my  shame,  but  my  eyes  are  now 
opened.  My  situation  was  accidental;  no,  I  should  say  pro 
vidential,  for  I  have  made  discoveries,  for  which  I  can  never 
be  sufficiently  grateful.  Jane,  I  have  been  harsh  and  unjustly 
suspicious,  I  know,  and  richly  deserve  all  I  have  suffered ;  but 
from  the  first  hour  of  my  return,  this  treacherous  friend  of 
yours,  discovering  the  weakness  of  my  character,  has  fanned 
the  flame  of  jealousy,  and  fed  the  fires  that  were  consuming 
me.  I  despise  myself  for  being  her  dupe." 

"  Oh  !  Miss  Hart,"  cried  Mrs.  Wentworth,  "how  could  you 
be  so  cruel  ?  you  whom  I  so  trusted,  and  thought  my  best  and 
truest  friend !" 


THE   PARLOUR   SERPENT.  99 

"  I  have  said  nothing  but  the  truth  to  either,"  cried  Miss 
Hart  boldly,  seeing  all  subterfuge  was  now  vain,  "  and 
you  had  better  profit  by  it.  Everybody  has  a  weak  side,  and 
if  they  leave  it  unguarded  and  open  to  the  attacks  of  the  enemy, 
they  have  no  one  to  blame  but  themselves.  I  never  made  you 
joalous,  Captain  Wentworth,  nor  your  wife  credulous ;  and,  as 
[  leave  you  wiser  than  I  found  you,  I  think  you  both  ought  to 
be  very  much  obliged  to  me." 

Thus  saying,  with  an  unblushing  countenance,  she  left  the 
apartment,  and  recollecting  the  next  morning  that  a  certain 
lady  had  given  her  a  most  pressing  invitation  to  visit  her,  she 
departed,  and  no  one  said  "  God  bless  her." 

Henry,  who  had  seen  full  as  much  as  he  desired  of  her, 
hardly  knew  which  rejoiced  him  more,  her  departure  or  his 
sister's  happiness.  Indeed  the  last  seemed  the  consequence 
of  the  first,  for  never  was  there  such  a  transformation  in  a 
household.  There  was  blue  sky  for  stormy  clouds — spring 
gales  for  chill  east  winds — love  and  joy  for  distrust  and  sorrow. 

Henry  had  seen  the  physician  and  minister  whom  Miss  Hart 
had  mentioned  as  the  lovers  of  Lois  Carroll.  The  young  phy 
sician  happened  to  be  a  bald,  broad-faced  man,  with  a  long 
nose,  which  turned  up  at  the  end,  as  if  looking  at  his  forehead, 
and  the  young  minister,  a  man  whose  hair  was  frosted  with 
the  snow  of  sixty  winters,  and  on  whose  evangelical  coun 
tenance  disease  had  written  deeper  lines  than  those  of  age. 
Charles,  too,  the  lover-cousin,  proved  to  be  an  only  brother,* 
whose  lingering  hours  of  disease  she  had  soothed  with^a7|i  »+. 
Christian  sister's  holy  ministration.  Henry  became  a  frequent,  'nrl 
and,  as  he  had  reason  to  believe,  a  welcome  visiter,  at  the  house. 
He  found  Lois  skilled  in  all  the  graceful  accomplishments  of 
her  sex — her  mind  was  enriched  with  oriental  and  classical  t 
literature,  her  memory  stored  with  the  brightest  and  purest 
gems  of  genius  and  taste ;  yet,  like  the  wise  men  of  the  East,  who 
brought  their  gold  and  frankincense  and  myrrh  to  the  manger 
of  the  babe  of  Bethlehem,  she  laid  these  precious  offerings  in 
lowliness  of  spirit,  at  the  feet  of  her  Redeemer.  All  at  once, 
Henry  perceived  a  cloud  come  over  the  confidence  in  which  he 
was  established  there.  The  good  aunt  was  cold  and  distant ; 
Lois,  though  still  gentle  and  kind,  was  silent  and  reserved, 
and  he  thought  he  caught  her  melting  blue  eyes  fixed  upon 
him  more  than  once  with  a  sad  and  pitying  expression. 

"  What  has  occurred  ?"   asked  he    with  the  frankness  so 


100  THE  PARLOUR  SERPENT. 

peculiar  to  him — when  for  a  moment  he  was  left  alone  with  her 
"  I  am  no  longer  a  welcome  guest." 

"  Forgive  us,"  answered  Lois,  her  face  mantling  with  earnest 
blushes,  "  if  we  feel  constrained  to  deny  ourselves  the  pleasure 
we  have  derived  from  your  society.  As  long  as  we  believed 
you  the  friend  of  religion,  though  not  her  acknowledged  votary, 
*  our  hearts  acknowledged  a  sympathy  with  yours,  and  indulged 
a  hope  that  you  would  ere  long  go  goal  for  goal  with  us  for  the 
same  immortal  priz-e.  But  an  infidel,  Mr.  More !  Oh !  my 
BOU!  I"  continued  she,  clasping  her  hands  fervently  together, 
and  looking  upward,  "  come  not  thou  into  his  secret !" 

"  An  infidel  I"  cried  Henry,  "and  do  you  believe  me  such, 
and  condemn  me  as  such,  unheard,  without  granting  me  an 
opportunity  of  vindication  ?" 

"  We  would  not  have  admitted  the  belief  from  an  authority 
less  respectable.  The  intelligence  came  from  one  who  had 
been  an  inmate  of  your  family,  and  expressed  for  you  the 
warmest  friendship.  We  were  told  that  you  ridicule  our  faith, 
make  the  Bible  a  scorn  and  mockery,  and  expose  us  as  indivi 
duals  to  contempt  and  derision." 

"  It  must  have  been  that  serpent  of  a  Miss  Hart !"  exclaimed 
Henry,  trembling  with  passion ;  "  that  scorpion,  that  fiend  in 
woman's  form,  whose  path  may  be  traced  by  the  slime  and  the 
poison  she  leaves  behind !  The  lips  which  could  brand  you, 
Lois,  as  a  hypocrite,  would  not  leave  my  name  unbluckened. 
My  sister  received  her  into  her  household,  and  her  domestic 
happiness  came  near  being  the  wreck  of  her  malignant  arts — • 
I  could  give  you  any  proof  you  may  ask  of  her  falsehood  and 
turpitude." 

"I  ask  none,"  cried  Lois,  with  an  irradiated  countenance, 
"I  believe  your  assurance,  and  rejoice  in  it.  I  cannot 
describe  the  pain,  the  grief  I  felt  that  one  so  kind  to  others, 
could  be  so  cruel  to  himself." 

Lois,  in  the  godly  simplicity  of  her  heart,  knew  not  of  the 
warmth  with  which  she  spoke,  or  of  the  vivid  expression  that 
lighted  up  her  eyes.  Henry  thought  if  ever  there  was  a 
moment  when  he  could  dare  to  address  her  as  a  being  born  to 
love,  and  to  be  loved  with  human  tenderness,  it  was  the  pre 
sent.  He  began  with  faltering  lips,  but  in  the  intensity  of 
his  feelings  he  soon  forgot  everything,  but  the  object  for  which 
he  was  pleading,  with  an  ardour  and  a  vehemence  that  made 
the  unsophisticated  Lois  tremble.  She  trembled  and  wept 


THE   PARLOUR    SERPENT.  101 

Her  heart  melted  before  his  impassioned  declaration,  but  she 
feared  to  yield  immediately  to  its  dictates. 

Their  course  of  life  had  hitherto  been  so  different,  their 
early  associations,  their  pursuits  and  habits — she  dreaded  lest 
he  should  mistake  the  fervour  of  his  attachment  for  her,  for 
the  warmth  of  religious  sentiment,  and  that  the  temptations 
of  the  world  would  resume  their  influence  over  his  heart. 
<(  Let  us  still  be  friends,"  said  she,  smiling  through  her  tears, 
"  till  time  has  more  fully  unfolded  our  characters  to  each  other. 
We  are  as  yet  but  acquaintances  of  a  day,  as  it  were,  and  if  we 
hope  to  pass  an  eternity  together,  we  should  pause  a  little 
before  we  become  fellow-travellers  in  our  pilgrimage.  The  love 
of  a  Christian/'  continued  she,  a  holy  enthusiasm  illuminating 
her  face,  "  cannot  be  limited  to  the  transient  union  of  this 
world — it  soars  far,  far  beyond  it,  illimitable  as  space,  and 
everlasting  as  the  soul's  existence."  Henry  felt,  while  listen 
ing  to  this  burst  of  hallowed  feeling,  that  to  possess  the  love 
of  Lois  Carroll  here,  without  a  hope  of  reunion  beyond  the 
grave,  would  be  a  dark  and  cheerless  destiny,  compared  to  the 
glorious  hopes  that  now  animated  his  being. 

It  was  about  two  years  after  this,  Miss  Hart  took  passage 
in  the  stage,  and  started  for  the  habitation  of  some  obscure 
relative  who  lived  in  a  distant  town.  She  had  gone  from 
family  to  family,  indulging  her  odious  propensity,  flattering 
the  present,  and  slandering  the  absent,  till,  her  character  be 
coming  fully  known,  all  doors  were  closed  against  her,  and  she 
was  compelled  to  seek  a  home,  among  kindred  she  was  ashamed 
to  acknowledge.  "Whose  beautiful  country-seats  are  those?" 
asked  a  fellow-passenger,  pointing  to  two  elegant  mansions, 
that  stood  side  by  side  as  if  claiming  consanguinity  with  each 
other.  "  The  first  belongs  to  Captain  Wentworth,  and  the 
other  to  Mr.  Henry  More,  his  brother-in-law,"  answered  Miss 
Hart,  putting  her  head  from  the  window,  as  they  passed — 
"  you  must  have  heard  of  them."  "No,"  said  the  stranger ; 
"  is  there  anything  remarkable  connected  with  them  ?"  "  No 
thing,"  replied  she,  with  one  of  her  significant  shrugs,  "only 
the  captain  is  one  of  your  dark  Spanish  Knights,  who  lock  up 
their  wives,  and  fight  everybody  who  looks  at  them  ;  and  his 
lady  likes  every  other  gentleman  better  than  her  husband — 
and  they  could  not  agree,  and  the  whole  city  were  talking  about 
them,  so  he  took  her  into  the  country,  and  makes  her  fast  and 
pray,  and  do  penance  for  her  sins.  The  other  gentleman,  Mr. 
More,  married  a  low,  ignorant  girl,  who  had  never  been  accus- 


102  THE  PARLOUR  SERPENT. 

tomed  to  good  society;  so,  being  ashamed  to  introduce  her 
among  his  friends,  he  immured  himself  in  the  country  also. 
They  say  he  is  so  wretched  in  his  choice,  he  has  turned  a  fana 
tic,  and  there  is  some  danger  of  his  losing  his  reason."  At 
this  moment  one  of  the  horses  took  fright,  and  springing  from 
the  road,  the  stage  was  upset,  with  a  terrible  crash.  Miss 
Hart,  whose  head  was  projecting  from  the  window,  was  the 
only  one  who  was  seriously  injured.  She  was  dreadfully  bruised 
and  mangled,  and  carried  insensible  into  Captain  Wentworth's 
house.  The  stranger,  whose  curiosity  was  excited  by  the 
description  he  had  just  heard,  and  seeing  the  inhabitants  of 
both  dwellings  were  gathering  together  in  consequence  of  the 
accident,  assisted  in  carrying  her,  and  lingered  as  long  as  he 
could  find  a  reasonable  excuse  for  doing  so.  "  I  believe  that 
young  woman's  jaw  is  broken,"  said  he,  when  he  rejoined  his 
fellow-passengers;  "and  it  is  a  judgment  upon  her — I  know 
there  is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  what  she  has  been  saying.  If 
ever  domestic  happiness,  as  well  as  benevolence,  dwelt  on 
earth,  I  verily  believe  it  is  in  those  two  families." 

It  was  long  before  Miss  Hart  recovered  her  consciousness, 
and  when  she  did,  and  endeavoured  to  speak,  she  felt  such  an 
excruciating  pain  in  her  jaw,  as  prevented  her  utterance.  It 
seemed  a  remarkable  instance  of  the  retribution  of  Providence, 
that  she  should  be  afflicted  in  the  very  part  which  she  had 
made  an  instrument  of  so  much  evil  to  others.  Her  jawbone 
was  indeed  broken,  and  there  she  lay,  writhing  in  agony,  inca 
pable  of  speech,  indebted  to  the  beings  she  hated  because  she 
had  injured,  for  the  cares  that  prolonged  her  miserable  exist 
ence.  She  could  not  speak,  but  she  could  see  and  hear,  and 
her  senses  seemed  sharpened  by  the  bondage  of  her  tongue. 
Mrs.  Wentworth,  and  Lois  too,  hovered  round  her,  with  gentle 
steps  aad  pitying  looks,  and  the  tenderest  alleviations;  and 
for  this  she  might  have  been  prepared.  But  when,  through 
the  shades  of  evening,  she  heard  the  deep  voice  of  the  once 
haughty  and  ungovernable  Captain  Wentworth,  breathing  forth 
humble  and  heartfelt  prayers,  while  his  wife  knelt  meek  and 
lowly  by  his  side,  when  she  heard  the  gay  and  gallant  Henry 
More,  reading  with  reverence  God's  holy  word,  and  joining 
with  Lois  in  hymns  to  the  Redeemer's  praise,  she  rolled  her 
eyes  in  wild  amazement,  and  her  dark  spirit  was  troubled  with 
in  her.  "  There  seems  a  reality  in  this,"  thought  she.  "  The 
worldling  become  the  saint,  and  the  lion  transformed  into  the 
lamb  !  How  happy  they  look,  while  I — poor,  wretched,  man- 


THE  PARLOUR  SERPENT.  103 

glcd  creature  that  I  am  !"  Paroxysms  of  agony  followed  theao 
reflections,  for  which  there  seemed  no  mitigation. 

She  lingered  for  a  long  time  speechless  and  in  great  suffering, 
but  at  length  recovered  with  a  frightful  distortion  in  the  lower 
part  of  the  face.  When  she  first  beheld  herself  in  a  mirror, 
the  shock  was  so  great  as  to  produce  delirium,  and  when  that 
subsided,  a  gloom  and  despair  succeeded,  from  which  they  vainly 
endeavoured  to  rouse  her  by  the  soothings  of  sympathy  and 
the  consolations  of  religion.  She  felt  that,  like  Cain,  she  must 
carry  about  an  indelible  brand  upon  her  face,  and  cried  like 
him,  in  bitterness  of  spirit,  "  My  punishment  is  greater  than  I 
can  bear."  It  was  intolerable  to  her  to  look  upon  the  fair,  serene 
countenances  of  Mrs.  Wentworth  and  Lois,  and  to  see  too  the 
eyes  of  their  husbands  follow  them  with  such  love  and  delight, 
and  then  to  draw  the  contrast  between  them  and  her  own  dis 
figured  beauty  and  desoiate  lot.  She  expressed  a  wish  to  be 
sent  to  Her  relatives,  and  the  wish  was  not  opposed.  She 
received  from  them  a  grudging  welcome,  for  they  had  felt  her 
sting,  and  feared  that  serpent  tongue  of  slander,  whose  ancestral 
venom  is  derived  from  the  arch  reptile  that  lurked  in  the 
bowers  of  Eden. 

Woe  to  the  slanderer ! — To  use  the  language  of  the  wise 
man,  "  her  end  is  bitter  as  wormwood,  and  sharp  as  a  two- 
edged  sword — Her  feet  go  down  to  death,  her  steps  take  hold 
on  hell  1" 


THE  SHAKER  GIRL. 


IT  was  on  a  Sunday  morning,  when  Roland  Gray  entered 

the  village  of .     Though  his  mind  was  intent  on  the 

object  of  his  journey,  he  could  not  but  admire  the  singu 
lar  neatness  and  uniformity  of  the  houses,  the  velvet  smooth 
ness  of  the  grass  on  the  wayside,  and  the  even  surlaoc  of  the 
street,  from  which  every  pebble  seemed  to  have  been  removed. 
An  air  of  perfect  tranquillity  reigned  over  the  whole — not  a 
being  was  seen  moving  abroad,  not  a  human  face  beaming 
through  the  windows;  yet  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  it  roamed 
over  a  vast,  cultivated  plain,  covered  with  all  the  animated 
hues  of  vegetation,  giving  evidence  that  the  spirit  of  life  was 
there,  or  had  been  recently  active.  "  Surely,"  thought  Ro 
land,  "I  have  entered  one  of  those  cities,  described  in  the 
Arabian  Nights,  where  some  magician  has  suddenly  converted 
the  inhabitants  into  stone.  I  will  dismount  and  explore  some 
of  these  buildings — perchance  I  shall  find  some  man,  who  is 
only  half  marble,  who  can  explain  this  enchantment  of  silence." 
He  had  scarcely  dismounted,  and  fastened  his  horse  to  a  part 
of  the  snow-white  railing  which  guarded  every  avenue  to  the 
dwellings,  when  he  saw  a  most  singular  figure  emerging  from 
one,  and  approaching  the  spot  where  he  stood.  It  was  a  boy 
of  about  twelve  years  old,  clad  in  the  ancient  costume  of  our 
forefathers — with  large  breeches,  fastened  at  the  knees  with 
square  shining  buckles — a  coat,  whose  skirts  were  of  surprising 
breadth,  and  a  low-crowned  hat,  whose  enormous  brim  shaded 
his  round  and  ruddy  visage.  Roland  could  not  forbear  smiling 
at  this  extraordinary  figure,  but  habitual  politeness  checked 
his  mirth.  He  inquired  the  name  of  the  village,  and  found 
to  his  surprise  he  was  in  the  midst  of  one  of  those  Shaker 
(104) 


THE   SHAKER  GIRL.  105 

establishments,  of  whose  existence,  and  of  whose  singular 
doctrines,  he  was  well  aware,  but  which,  his  own  home  being 
remote,  he  had  never  had  an  opportunity  of  witnessing.  De 
lighted  with  the  circumstance,  for  the  love  of  novelty  and 
excitement  was  predominant  in  his  character,  he  determined 
to  avail  himself  of  it  to  its  fullest  extent.  An  old  man, 
dressed  in  the  same  obsolete  fashion,  came  up  the  path  and 
accosted  him : 

"  Are  you  a  traveller,"  said  he,  "  and  seeking  refreshments  ? 
If  so,  I  am  sorry  you  have  chosen  this  day,  but  nevertheless 
we  never  refuse  to  perform  the  rites  of  hospitality." 

Roland  confessed  he  had  no  claims  upon  their  hospitality, 
having  partaken  of  a  hearty  breakfast  two  hours  before  in  a 
town  not  far  distant,  and  he  wondered  within  himself  why 
they  had  not  mentioned  the  vicinity  of  this  interesting  es 
tablishment  ]  forgetting  that  to  those  who  live  within  the  reach 
of  any  object  of  curiosity,  it  loses  its  interest.  It  is  said  there 
are  some,  who  live  where  the  echo  of  Niagara's  eternal  thun 
ders  are  ringing  in  their  ears,  who  have  never  gazed  upon  its 
foam.  "  If  you  come  to  witness  our  manner  of  worship, 
young  man,"  said  the  elder,  "and  come  in  a  sober,  godly 
spirit,  I  give  you  welcome.  The  world's  people  often  visit  us, 
some,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  to  scoff  and  to  jest ;  but  you  have  an 
honest,  comely  countenance,  and  I  trust  are  led  by  better  mo 
tives." 

Roland  was  no  hypocrite,  but  the  good  Shaker  opened  for 
him  so  fair  a  door  of  excuse  for  his  intrusion,  he  was  unwilling 
to  deny  that  he  was  moved  by  a  laudable  desire  to  behold  their 
peculiar  form  of  worship.  Pleased  by  the  sunny  openness  of 
his  countenance,  the  elder  led  the  way  to  the  house  set  apart 
for  the  service  of  the  Most  High,  exhorting  him  at  the  same 
time  to  renounce  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  the  world,  and 
unite  with  them  in  that  oneness  of  spirit,  which  distinguished 
their  society  from  the  children  of  mankind.  No  lofty  spire 
marked  out  the  temple  of  the  Lord,  nor  did  its  form  differ 
from  that  of  a  common  dwelling-place.  They  entered  a  spa 
cious  hall,  the  floor  of  which  presented  such  a  dazzling 
expanse  of  white,  the  foot  of  the  traveller  hesitated  before 
pressing  its  polished  surface.  The  walls  were  of  the  same 
shining  whiteness,  chilling  the  eye  by  their  cold  uniformity — 
and  benches  arranged  with  the  most  exact  precision  on  each 
side  of  the  building,  marked  the  boundaries  of  either  sex 
Roland  seated  himself  at  some  distance  from  .the  prescribed 


106  THE   SHAKER   GIRL. 

limits,  and  waited  with  proper  solemnity  the  entrance  of  the 
worshippers.  He  observed  that  the  men  invariably  entered  at 
one  door,  the  women  at  another,  and  that  they  had  as  little 
intercourse  as  if  they  belonged  to  different  worlds.  The  men 
were  all  clothed  in  the  ancient  costume  we  have  just  descril  od, 
and  the  women  were  dressed  in  garments  as  peculiar  and  uu- 
)ccoming.  A  shirt  of  the  purest  white,  short  gown  of  the 
game  texture,  a  'kerchief  folded  in  stiff  unbending  plaits,  a 
mob  cap  of  linen  fastened  close  around  the  face,  from  which 
every  tress  of  hair  was  combed  carefully  back,  constituted 
their  chill  and  ghost-like  attire.  As  one  by  one  these  pallid 
figures  glided  in,  and  took  their  appointed  seat,  Roland  felt  as 
if  he  were  gazing  on  the  phantasmagoria  of  a  dream,  so  pale 
and  unearthly  did  they  seem.  The  countenances  of  the  males 
were  generally  suffused  with  a  ruddy  glow,  but  cold  and  colour 
less  as  marble  were  the  cheeks  of  that  sex  he  had  been  wont 
to  see  adorned  with  the  roses  of  beauty  and  health.  They 
arose  and  arranged  themselves  in  a  triangular  form,  while 
several  of  the  aged  stood  in  the  centre,  commencing  the  wor 
ship  by  a  hymn  of  praise.  Their  voices  were  harsh  and  broken, 
but  the  devotion  of  their  manner  sanctified  the  strains,  and. 
Roland  felt  not,  as  he  feared  he  should,  a  disposition  for  mirth. 
But  when  they  gradually  formed  into  a  procession,  marching 
two  and  two  in  a  regular  line,  all  joining  in  the  wild  and  disso 
nant  notes,  then  warming  as  they  continued,  changing  the 
solemn  march  into  the  liveliest  dance,  clapping  their  hands 
simultaneously  and  shouting  till  the  cold  white  walls  resounded 
with  the  strange  hosannas ;  all  the  while,  those  hueleas,  pas 
sionless  faces  gleaming  by  him,  so  still  and  ghastly  mid  their 
ghroud-like  garments,  his  brain  began  to  reel,  and  he  almost 
imagined  himself  attending  the  orgies  of  the  dead,  of  resuscita 
ted  bodies,  with  the  motions  of  life,  but  without  the  living 
soul.  .  Still,  over  the  whole  group  there  was  a  pervading 
solemnity  and  devotion,  an  apparent  abandonment  of  the  whole 
world — an  anticipation  of  the  loneliness  and  lifelessness  of  the 
tomb,  that  redeemed  it  from  ridicule,  and  inspired  emotions 
kindred  to  awe.  This  awe,  however,  soon  melted  away  in 
pity  at  such  delusion,  and  this  sensation  became  at  length  con 
verted  into  admiration  for  an  object,  at  first  unnoticed  in  the 
general  uniformity  of  the  scene,  but  which  grew  upon  his  eye, 
like  the  outline  of  the  landscape  through  the  morning  mist. 
There  was  one  young  girl  moving  in  this  throng  of  worship 
pers,  whose  superior  bearing  could  not  long  elude  the  stranger's 


THE   SHAKER   GIRL.  107 

scrutiny.  Her  age  might  be  fourteen  or  fifteen,  perhaps 
younger ;  it  was  difficult  to  decide  through  the  muffling  folds 
of  a  dress  which  levelled  every  distinction  of  form  and  comeli 
ness.  As  she  passed  and  repassed  him,  in  the  evolutions  of 
their  dance,  he  caught  occasional  glimpses  of  a  face,  which, 
though  pale,  betrayed  the  flitting  colour  through  the  transpa 
rent  skin;  and  once  or  twice  the  soft,  thoughtful  gray  eyes 
were  turned  towards  him,  with  a  wistful  and  earnest  expres 
sion,  as  if  claiming  sympathy  and  kindness  from  some  con 
genial  being.  Fixing  his  gaze  upon  the  spot  where  he  first 
beheld  her,  he  watched  her  returning  figure  with  an  intensity 
that  at  last  became  visible  to  the  object  of  it,  for  the  pale  rose 
of  her  cheek  grew  deeper  and  deeper,  and  her  beautiful  gray 
eyes  were  bent  upon  the  floor.  Roland  leaned  from  the  window 
near  which  he  was  seated,  to  see  if  it  was  actually  the  same 
world  he  had  inhabited  that  morning,  so  strangely  were  hia 
senses  affected  by  the  shrill  music,  growing  louder  and  louder, 
the  shuffling,  gliding  motions,  increasing  in  velocity,  and  .this 
sweet  apparition  so  unexpectedly  mingling  in  such  an  incongru 
ous  scene.  The  breath  of  summer  redolent  with  a  thousand 
perfumes  stole  over  his  brow — the  blue  sky  was  arching  over 
his  head;  never  had  creation  seemed  more  lovely  or  glowing; 
yet  the  worshippers  within  deemed  they  were  offering  an  ac 
ceptable  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  God,  the  sacrifice  of  those 
social  affections,  which  find  such  beautiful  emblems  in  the 
works  of  nature.  Roland  became  so  lost  in  these  reflections, 
he  hardly  noticed  the  closing  of  the  exercise,  or  heard  the  mo 
notonous  tones  of  one  of  the  elders,  who  was  exhorting  in  the 
peculiar  dialect  of  his  sect.  When  the  services  were  con 
cluded,  he  left  the  hall,  still  watching  the  motions  of  the  gray- 
eyed  damsel,  in  the  bold  resolution  of  accosting  her,  and 
discovering  if  she  were  a  willing  devotee.  As  she  walked 
along  with  a  light  step,  in  spite  of  her  clumsy  high-heeled 
shoes,  by  the  side  of  an  ancient  dame,  Roland,  unconscious  of 
the  extreme  audacity  of  the  act,  and  hardly  knowing  himseJf 
in  what  manner  to  address  her,  crossed  her  path,  and  was  in 
the  very  act  of  apologizing  for  the  intrusion,  when  his  arui 
was  seized  with  a  sturdy  grasp,  and  he  saw  the  old  Shaker  who 
had  introduced  him  into  the  assembly,  standing  by  his  side. 
"  Young  man,"  said  he,  in  a  stern  voice — "  do  you  come  here, 
a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  fleck'/ 
what  is  your  bu.  iness  with  this  child,  whom  our  rules  forbid 
you  to  address  ?"  Roland  felt  at  first  very  indignant,  but  a 


108  THE   SHAKER  GIRL. 

moment's  reflection  convinced  him  he  had  erred,  and  trans 
gressed  their  rigid  rules.  He  felt  too  that  he  had  placed  him 
self  in  rather  a  ridiculous  situation,  and  he  stood  before  the  re 
buking  elder  with  a  blush  of  ingenuous  shame,  that  completely 
disarmed  his  wrath.  "  You  are  young,  very  young,"  said  the 
old  man — "and  I  forgive  you — you  have  been  brought  up  in 
the  midst  of  the  vanities  of  the  world,  and  I  pity  you  ;  yet  my 
heart' cleaves  to  you,  young  man,  and  when  you  become  weary 
of  those  vanities,  as  you  shortly  will,  come  to  us,  and  you  will 
find  that  peace  which  the  world  can  neither  give  nor  take 
away." 

He  shook  hands  with  Roland  after  he  had  spoken,  who  ac 
knowledged  his  offence,  thanked  him  for  his  counsel  and  kind 
ness,  and,  mounting  his  horse,  left  him  with  a  sentiment  of 
unfeigned  respect;  so  true  it  is,  that  sincerity  of  faith  gives 
dignity  to  the  professor  of  many  a  creed  revolting  to  human 
reason.  Roland  looked  back  upon  the  beautiful  village,  and 
wondered  at  what  he  had  just  witnessed.  He  felt  a  strong 
disposition  to  linger,  that  he  might  discover  something  more 
of  the  peculiarities  of  this  singular  and  isolated  people.  Had 
he  known  their  incorruptible  honesty,  their  unwearied  industry, 
their  trusting  hospitality,  their  kindness  and  charity — had  he 
seen  the  pale  sisterhood  extending  their  cherishing  cares  to  the 
children  of  orphanage  and  want,  he  would  have  been  con 
vinced  that  warm  streams  of  living  tenderness  were  flowing 
beneath  the  cold  forms  of  their  austere  religion. 

Roland  Gray  was  very  young,  and  had  seen  but  little  of  the 
world.  He  had  led  the  secluded  life  of  a  student,  and,  but 
lately  freed  from  collegiate  restraints,  he  had  been  trying  his 
wings,  preparatory  to  a  bolder  flight  across  the  Atlantic.  He 
was  now  on  the  way  to  his  sister,  who,  with  himself,  was  placed 
under  the  guardianship  of  the  excellent  Mr.  Worthington,  for 
they  were  orphans,  left  with  an  independent  fortune,  but  singu 
larly  destitute  of  kindred,  being  the  last  of  their  race.  An 
invalid  gentleman,  one  of  his  father's  early  friends,  was  about 
to  travel  in  foreign  climes  to  try  the  benefit  of  a  milder  atmo 
sphere,  and  he  urged  Roland  to  be  his  companion.  Such  a 
proposal  was  accepted  with  gratitude,  and  Roland,  with  buoyant 
spirits,  returned  to  his  sister,  to  bid  her  farewell,  before  launch 
ing  on  the  "deep  blue  sea."  Lucy  Gray  was  older  than  her 
brother,  and  from  childhood  had  exercised  over  him  the  influ 
ence  with  which  a  few  additional  years,  joined  to  a  strength 
of  mind  far  beyond  her  years,  invested  her.  He  was  the  ob- 


THE   SHAKER  GIRL.  109 

ject  no  less  of  her  love  than  her  pride.  She  looked  upon  him 
as  the  last  representative  of  a  family,  honoured  among  the 
most  honourable,  and  destined  to  transmit  to  posterity  his 
ancestral  name,  with  unblemished  and  still  more  exalted  lustre. 
She  resolved  he  should  ennoble  himself  by  marriage,  and 
would  have  scorned,  as  degrading,  the  thought  that  love  might 
make  the  youth  a  rebel  to  her  will.  She  believed  the  affections 
entirely  under  the  control  of  the  reason,  and  looked  upon  the 
passions  as  vassals  to  be  dragged  at  its  chariot  wheels.  Lucy 
was  not  loved  by  her  friends,  but  she  was  respected  and  es 
teemed  for  the  firmness  of  her  principles,  and  the  strength  of 
her  mind.  But  Roland  loved  as  much  as  he  revered  her.  His 
heart  was  a  fountain  of  warm  and  generous  affections,  and  it 
flowed  out  towards  her,  his  only  sister,  in  the  fulness  of  a  cur 
rent,  that  found  no  other  legitimate  channel.  Accustomed  to 
'yield  his  rash  and  ardent  impulses  to  the  direction  of  her 
cooler  judgment,  he  looked  up  to  her  as  the  mentor  of  his 
follies,  rather  than  as  the  companion  of  his  youthful  amuse 
ments,  and  now,  after  an  absence  of  several  months,  partly 
from  pleasure  and  partly  from  business,  he  looked  forward  to 
meeting  her  with  something  of  the  feelings  of  a  son,  blended 
with  the  affection  of  a  brother.  His  arrival  at  Mr.  Worthing- 
ton's  was  hailed  with  a  burst  of  joy,  for  Roland  had  a  face  of 
sunshine  and  a  voice  of  melody,  that  shed  light  and  music 
wherever  he  went.  In  relating  his  adventures,  he  failed  not 
to  give  due  interest  to  his  interview  with  the  Shakers,  and 
laughed  over  the  Quixotism  that  exposed  him  to  so  stern  a 
rebuke.  The  pretty  little  Shakeress  did  not  lose  any  of  her 
attractions  in  his  romantic  description,  and  he  dwelt  upon  her 
dovelike  eyes,  melting  beneath  the  snows  of  her  antiquated 
cap,  her  sweet,  appealing  countenance  and  spiritual  air,  till 
Mr.  Worthington's  childless  heart  warmed  within  him,  and 
Lucy  listened  with  apprehensive  pride  lest  her  brother's  excited 
imagination  should  convert  this  obscure  unknown  into  a  heroine 
of  romance.  It  was  but  a  transient  alarm,  for  she  knew  that 
the  waves  of  the  Atlantic  would  soon  roll  between  them,  and 
Roland,  surrounded  by  all  the  glorious  associations  of  an  elder 
world,  would  cast  aside  every  light  and  ignoble  fancy,  and  fit 
himself  for  the  high  station  in  society  she  felt  he  was  born  to 
fill. 


After  an  absence  of  four  years  Roland  Gray  appeared  once 

108 


110  THE   SHAKER   GIRL. 

more  in  the  family  circle  of  Mr.  Worthington.  His  hair  had 
assumed  a  darker  shade,  and  his  check  a  darker  glow,  but  the 
same  sunshiny  spirit  lighted  up  his  brow  and  animated  his 
lips;  it  was  Roland  Gray  still,  only  the  bloom  of  boyhood 
was  lost  in  the  sunniness  of  manhood.  Lucy's  handsome,  but 
severe  countenance  was  so  irradiated  with  joy,  it  was  almost 
dazzling  from  the  effect  of  contrast :  and  as  she  sat  by  his  side, 
and  gazed  in  his  face,  she  felt  that  all  her  affections  and  her 
hopes  were  so  completely  centered  in  him,  they  could  be 
separated  only  with  the  breaking  of  her  heart.  Happy  as 
Roland  was  in  being  reunited  to  his  sister,  his  attention  was 
not  so  engrossed  as  to  forget  the  kindly  greetings  due  to  the 
other  members  of  Mr.  Worthington's  household. 

"  I  have  an  adopted  daughter  to  introduce  you  to,"  said  Mr. 
Worthington,  drawing  forward  a  young  girl  who,  on  the  en 
trance  of  Roland,  had  retreated  behind  a  stand  of  geraniums, 
and  busied  herself  in  picking  off  the  faded  leaves.  Roland 
had  become  too  familiar  with  beauty  in  foreign  climes,  to  be 
surprised  into  admiration  of  a  face  however  fair,  but  there 
was  a  sweetness,  a  modesty  and  simplicity  diffused  over  the 
young  face  before  him,  that  interested  his  feelings  and  dis 
armed  his  judgment.  He  could  scarcely  tell  the  colour  of  her 
eyes,  for  they  were  downcast,  but  there  was  something  in  the 
play  of  her  features,  that  implied  she  sympathized  in  the 
pleasure  his  coming  had  excited.  "  Roland,"  continued  Mr. 
Worthington,  evidently  delighted  with  the  reception  he  had 
given  his  favourite,  "  this  is  my  daughter  Grace,  whom  Provi 
dence  has  kindly  given  to  cheer  a  widowed  and  childless  heart. 
You  know  I  look  upon  you  almost  as  my  son,  so  you  will  find 
in  her,  I  trust,  another  sister  to  love."  Roland  held  out  his 
hand  with  great  alacrity  to  seal  this  new  compact,  but  the 
pretty  Grace  drew  back  with  an  embarrassment  he  was  un 
willing  to  increase,  seeing  it  was  entirely  unaffected;  and 
there  was  something  in  Lucy's  glance  that  told  him  she  re 
sented  the  idea  of  such  a  partnership  in  his  affections.  He 
could  not  but  marvel  where  good  old  Mr.  Worthington  had 
found  such  a  fairy  gift,  but  believing  the  mystery  would  be  ex 
plained  in  due  time,  he  promised  himself  no  slight  gratification 
in  studying  a  character,  concealed  under  such  a  veil  of  bash- 
fulness  and  reserve.  The  twilight  hour  found  the  brother  and 
sister  walking  together  towards  their  accustomed  seat  under 
the  sycamore  boughs,  the  scene  of  many  of  Lucy's  former 
s,  and  RoLmd's  high  resolves.  She  wanted  to  be  alone 


THE   SHAKER   GIRL.  Ill 

with  him  —  to  guard  him  against  a  thousand  dangers  and 
snares,  visible  only  to  her  proud  and  jealous  eye.  "  Oh  !  Ro 
land/'  said  she,  taking  his  hand  and  looking  earnestly  in  his 
face — "  do  you  return  unchanged  ? — may  I  still,  as  wont,  pre 
sume  to  counsel,  to  direct,  and  to  sustain  ?"  "  Unchanged  in 
everything  as  regards  my  affection  for  you,  my  dear  sister," 
replied  he — "  be  still  my  mentor  and  my  guide,  for  I  fear,  with 
all  the  worldly  wisdom  I  have  acquired,  I  am  often  the  sum 
impulsive  being  you  have  so  long  tried  in  vain  to  bring  under 
the  square  and  compass  of  reason  and  right.  Now,  I  feel  at 
this  moment  an  irresistible  impulse  to  know  who  is  this  pretty 
God-send  of  Mr.  Worthington' s ;  did  she  drop  down  from  the 
skies,  or  did  she  come  on  the  wings  of  the  wind  ?" 

"I  am  glad  you  have  opened  the  subject,  Roland,  for  I 
brought  you  here  to  warn  you  of  that  girl's  influence.  Do  not 
laugh,  for,  knowing  you  so  well,  I  feel  bound  to  prevent  any 
imposition  on  your  open,  generous  nature.  I  do  not  know  who 
she  is,  probably  some  poor  child  of  shame  and  desertion,  whom 
Mr.  Worthington  discovered  and  educated,  for  it  is  but  a  year 
since  he  brought  her  from  school,  and  introduced  her  as  his 
adopted  daughter.  He  made  a  long  visit  to  his  relatives,  since 
you  left  us,  and  found  her,  I  believe,  in  the  family  of  his 
brother,  in  a  dependent  and  perhaps  menial  situation.  Charmed 
by  her  beauty  and  beguiled  by  her  arts,  the  good  man  con 
ceived  the  romantic  design  of  educating  her  as  his  own,  and 
now  he  is  felicitating  himself  with  another  project,  that  of  se 
curing  for  this  nameless  foundling  the  heart  and  the  fortune 
of  Roland  Gray."  Roland  had  heard  too  much  about  gentle 
blood  and  honourable  parentage,  and  been  too  much  under  the 
influence  of  his  aristocratic  sister,  not  to  shrink  from  the  sup 
position  of  such  an  union,  but  he  protested  against  the  word 
arts,  which  Lucy  had  used  in  reference  to  Grace,  for  she  looked 
the  most  artless  of  human  beings;  and  he  accused  her  of 
injustice  towards  Mr.  Worthington,  who  in  his  singleness  of 
heart  was  incapable  of  making  a  project  of  any  kind.  "  Yoi 
must  not  think  it  strange,"  said  Lucy,  "  that  I,  a  woman 
should  not  be  blinded  by  the  beauty  of  one  of  my  own  sex, 
and  I  know  I  am  superior  to  the  weakness  of  envy.  With  an. 
insight  into  character  which  has  never  deceived  me,  I  know 
that  girl  to  be  vain,  selfish,  and  calculating.  Mr.  Worthiugton 
may  claim  her  as  his  daughter,  but  he  shall  never  impose  her 
on  me,  by  the  name  of  sister."  Those  who  have  witnessed  the 
empire  an  elder  sister  of  commanding  mind  and  manners  is 


.112  THE   SHAKER  GIRL. 

capable  of  obtaining  over  a  younger  brother's  judgment,  will 
not  be  surprised  that  Roland  learned  to  look  upon  Grace  with 
distrustful  eyes,  though  he  could  not  believe  in  the  duplicity 
Lucy  ascribed  to  her  character,  and  he  invariably  treated  her 
with  that  consideration  due  to  the  situation  she  held  in  Mr. 
Worthington's  family.  It  was  impossible,  however,  to  be  do 
mesticated  with  her,  to  be  seated  at  the  same  table,  parties  in 
the  same  amusements,  near  each  other  in  the  evening  circle, 
and  the  moonlight  walks,  notwithstanding  the  unsleeping  vigi 
lance  of  Lucy,  not  to  feel  the  reality  of  her  loveliness,  her  sim 
plicity  and  truth.  There  was  something  about  her  that  haunted 
him  like  a  dream,  and  whenever  she  turned  her  eyes  towards 
him,  he  experienced  a  sudden  thrill  of  recollection,  as  if  he 
had  seen  that  fair  face  before.  In  the  evening  Mr.  Worthing- 
ton  often  challenged  Lucy  to  a  game  of  chess,  for  though  not 
a  skilful  performer,  he  was  extravagantly  fond  of  the  game, 
and  Lucy  had  no  rival  in  the  art.  She  now  regretted  this  ac 
complishment,  as  it  threw  her  brother  more  immediately  into 
companionship  with  Grace,  whose  conversation,  when  unre 
strained,  was  perfectly  bewitching,  from  a  mixture  of  bright 
intelligence,  quick  sensibility,  and  profound  ignorance  of  the 
vices  and  customs  of  the  world.  It  was  evident  she  felt  op 
pressed  by  Lucyvs  scrutinizing  gaze,  for  when  she  was  con 
scious  of  its  withdrawal,  her  spirits  rebounded  with  an  unob 
trusive  gaycty,  that  harmonized  admirably  with  the  life  and 
vivacity  of  Roland's  disposition. 

One  evening,  as  Lucy  was  absorbed  in  the  crisis  of  the 
game,  Grace  was  busily  plying  her  needle,  making  some  gar 
ments  for  a  poor  woman,  whose  house  and  wardrobe  were  com 
pletely  consumed  by  fire,  the  previous  night;  all  the  ladies  in 
the  neighbourhood  were  contributing  their  part  towards  reliev 
ing  her  wants,  and  a  very  pretty  little  girl,  with  a  basket  half- 
filled  with  her  mother's  offerings,  was  waiting  till  Grace  had 
put  the  last  stitches  into  a  cap,  whose  fashion  seemed  to  fix  the 
particular  attention  of  Roland.  The  child,  who  was  a  petted 
favourite  in  the  family,  caught  up  the  cap  the  moment  it  was 
completed,  and  drawing  it  over  the  soft  brown  locks  of  Grace, 
laughingly  fastened  the  linen  bands.  Roland  uttered  so  sudden 
an  exclamation,  it  made  Lucy  start  from  her  seat,  upsetting 
bishop,  knight,  and  royalty  itself.  The  mystery  was  revealed, 
the  pretty  little  Shakeress  stood  before  him.  The  close  lin^n 
border,  under  which  every  lock  of  hair  was,  concealed,  trans 
formed  at  once  the  fashionable  and  elegant  ynung  lady  into 


THE   SHAKER   GIRL.  113 

the  simple  and  humble  Shaker  girl.  A  scene,  which  the  lapse 
of  years  and  the  crowding  events  of  a  transatlantic  tour  had 
effaced  from  his  memory,  returned  vividly  to  his  recollection. 
He  wondered  he  had  not  recognised  her  earlier,  but  the  hue 
of  the  soft  gray  eye  was  darkened,  and  its  light  more  warm 
and  shifting,  her  complexion  had  a  richer  colouring,  and 
shadows  of  bright  hair  relieved  the  fairness  of  a  brow  where 
ntelligence  and  sensibility  now  sat  enthroned.  Then  her 
figure — now  revealed  in  all  the  graces  of  womanhood,  was  it 
the  same  he  had  seen  muffled  in  the  stiff  starched  shirt  and  'ker 
chief,  moving  on  high-heeled  shoes  with  large  shining  buckles? 
Grace  blushed  deeply  beneath  his  riveted  gaze,  and  hastily 
snatching  the  cap  from  her  head,  folded  it  with  the  other  gar 
ments  she  had  made  into  the  basket,  and  bade  the  little  girl 
hasten  to  her  mother.  "  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this 
bustle  ?"  said  Lucy,  looking  at  Grace  with  so  much  asperity  it 
made  her  involuntarily  draw  closer  to  Mr.  Worthington.  "  It 
means,"  said  Roland,  delighted  and  excited  by  the  discovery 
he  had  made,  and  forgetting  his  sister's  daily  cautions — "  it 
means  that  I  have  found  my  pretty  Shakeress  at  last.  Ah  ! 
Mr.  Worthington,  why  did  not  you  tell  me  that  your  adopted 
daughter  and  my  fair  unknown  were  one  ?"  Mr.  Worthington 
laughed,  and  taking  the  hand  of  Grace  drew  her  upon  his 
knee.  "Because  the  world  is  full  of  prejudice,  and  I  did  uot 
like  to  expose  my  girl  to  its  influence.  I  always  wanted  to 
tell  you,  but  Grace  insisted  I  should  allow  you  to  find  it  out 
yourself,  for  she  told  me  about  the  bold  youth,  who  almost- 
stared  her  out  of  her  devotion  and  her  wits.  Nay,  Grace,  I 
owe  him  a  thousand  thanks,  for  had  he  not  warmed  my  old 
heart  by  a  description  of  your  loveliness,  I  never  should  have 
gone  so  far  out  of  my  journey  to  visit  your  village,  begged 
you  of  the  good  people  for  my  own,  nor  would  I  now  haxe 
such  a  sweet  blossom  to  shed  fragrance  over  my  declining 
years." 

"And  how,"  exclaimed  Roland  with  irresistible  curiosity, 
"  how  came  she  amongst  them  ?"  Before  Mr.  Worthington. 
could  reply,  Grace  clasped  her  hands  earnestly  together,  and 
cried,  "  I  was  a  stranger,  and  they  took  me  in ;  I  was  an  or. 
phan  and  they  clothed  me,  sheltered  and — "  Previously  much 
agitated,  Grace  here  entirely  lost  her  self-command,  and  lean 
ing  her  head  on  the  shoulder  of  Mr.  Worthington,  she  wept 
audibly.  Lucy  actually  trembled  and  turned  pale.  She  saw 
that  her  empire  was  tottering  from  its  foundation.  Accustomed 


114  THE   SHAKER  GIRL. 

to  interpret  every  change  of  her  brother's  countenance,  she 
read  with  terror  the  intense  expression  with  which  his  eyes 
were  fixed  on  Grace.  She  was  willing  he  should  marry  from 
ambition,  but  not  for  love.  She  had  never  for  a  moment 
admitted  the  idea  that  another  should  supplant  her  in  his  affec 
tions — a  jealousy  far  more  dark  and  vindictive  than  that 
excited  by  love,  the  jealousy  of  power,  took  possession  of  her 
soul,  mingled  with  a  bitter  hatred  towards  the  innocent  cause 
of  these  emotions.  Through  life  she  had  bowed  the  will 
of  others  to  her  own,  and  as  long  as  no  opposition  roused 
the  strength  of  her  passions,  she  maintained  a  character  of 
integrity  and  virtue,  that  bid  defiance  to  scandal  and  reproach. 
She  did  not  know  herself  the  evil  of  which  she  was  capable, 
but  now  the  lion  was  unchained  in  her  bosom,  and  chafed  and 
•wrestled  for  its  prey.  Too  politic  to  attempt  checking  too 
suddenly  the  tide  of  feeling,  yet  too  angry  to  hide  her  own 
chagrin,  she  left  the  room,  and  meditated  in  what  manner  she 
could  best  arrest  the  evil  she  dreaded.  She  failed  not,  how 
ever,  to  breathe  a  warning  whisper  into  her  brother's  ear  as 
she  passed  out.  Here  Mr.  Worthington  entreated  Grace  to 
tell  Roland  all  she  knew  of  herself,  assuring  her,  in  his  sim 
plicity,  that  no  one,  next  to  himself,  felt  so  deep  an  interest  in 
her,  as  he  did.  Roland  felt  no  disposition  to  contradict  this 
assertion,  and  joined  his  own  entreaties  so  earnestly  to  Mr. 
Worthington' s,  Grace  hesitated  not  to  relate  her  simple  his 
tory.  It  could  be  comprised  in  a  few  words.  She  told  of 
her  sad  and  almost  desolate  childhood,  of  her  dwelling  in  a 
little  cottage  deep  in  the  woods,  remote  from  neighbours  or 
friends;  of  a  dark  and  cruel  man  she  called  father — here 
Grace's  voice  grew  low  and  husky — of  a  pale,  sick,  and  dying 
mother,  who  was  found  by  a  good  Shaker,  on  the  bed  of  death, 
and  who  committed  her  orphan  child  to  the  care  of  the  kind1 
Samaritan.  The  man  who  had  deserted  her  mother,  in  the 
extremity  of  her  wants,  never  appeared  to  claim  his  child. 
She  was  cherished  in  the  bosom  of  that  benevolent  society, 
where  Roland  first  beheld  her,  grateful  for  their  kindness, 
though  yearning  after  freedom  and  the  fellowship  of  youth, 
till  Mr.  Worthington  came,  and  offered  her  the  love  and 
guardianship  of  a  father,  if  she  would  occupy  a  daughter's 
place  in  his  heart  and  home.  Her  father's  name  was  Gold 
man,  which  she  had  willingly  resigned  for  that  of  Worthing 
ton,  for  the  memory  she  had  of  him,  was  like  a  dark  and 
terrible  dream — fearful  to  remember.  The  dread  that  he  might 


THE   SHAKER   GIRL.  115 

appear  some  day  to  claim  her,  often  made  her  shudder  in  the 
midst  of  her  happiness ;  but  as  so  many  years  had  passed 
away,  it  was  more  natural  to  suppose  he  had  expiated  his 
cruelty  with  his  life. 

Had  Mr.  Worthington  conceived  the  project  that  Lucy  had 
suggested,  and  been  aware  at  the  same  time  of  Roland's  family 
pride,  it  is  not  probable  he  would  have  induced  her  to  revea 
to  him  the  sad  events  of  her  childhood ;  and  had  Grace  been 
the  artful  being  described,  she  would  never  have  told  with  such 
straightforward  simplicity  and  deep  sensibility  of  her  father's 
brutality  and  vices,  nor  expressed  the  startling  fear,  that  he 
might  still  assert  the  forfeited  rights  of  nature,  and  tear  her 
from  the  arms  of  her  benefactor.  Such  thoughts  as  these 
filled  the  breast  of  Roland,  as  Grace  continued  her  affecting 
recital,  where  truth  was  attested  by  her  blushes  and  her  tears. 
She  unclasped  from  her  neck  a  golden  chain,  from  which  a 
miniature  was  suspended,  the  sole  relic  of  her  mother.  The 
chain  was  beautifully  wrought,  and  indicated  that  however 
abject  was  the  condition  to  which  the  owner  had  been  reduced, 
she  had  once  been  accustomed  to  the  decorations  of  wealth. 
The  miniature  was  that  of  a  gentleman  in  the  prime  of  life, 
with  a  dark,  but  interesting  countenance,  and  dignified  bearing. 
Grace  knew  not  whether  it  was  her  father's  picture,  for  she  had 
but  a  faint  recollection  of  his  features,  and  the  Shaker  who 
discovered  it  around  her  mother's  neck,  after  she  was  speech 
less  in  death,  could  give  her  no  information. 

Here  was  mystery  and  romance,  innocence,  beauty,  and 
youth ;  and  Roland  felt  as  if  he  would  gladly  twine  them 
together,  and  bind  them  around  his  heart,  as  all  "  he  guessed 
of  heaven."  But  while  his  imagination  was  weaving  the  gar 
land  and  revelling  in  its  fragrance,  the  vision  of 

"  A  sister's  jealous  care, 
A  cruel  sister  she," 

rose  before  him,  and  the  wreath  faded  and  the  blossoms  fell. 
With  a  stinging  sensation  of  shame,  he  admitted  the  convic 
tion,  that  he  feared  his  sister.  He  had  long  worn  her  fetters 
unconsciously,  but  now,  when  for  the  first  time  they  galled 
and  restrained  him,  his  pride  and  his  heart  rebelled  against 
the  hand  that  bound  him  in  thraldom.  Grace  retired  that 
night,  with  a  thousand  bright  hopes  hovering  round  her  pillow 
Roland  then  was  her  first  benefactor.  It  was  he,  who  had 
awakened  the  interest  of  Mr.  Worthington,  and  directed  him 


116  THE   SHAKER  GIRL. 

to  her  retreat.  He,  the  handsome  and  noble-lookmg  youth, 
whose  dark  piercing  eyes  had  kindled  in  her  such  yearnings 
after  the  world  from  which  she  was  excluded,  and  who  for 
four  years  had  been  the  morning  and  evening  star  on  the 
horizon  of  her  memory.  She  knew  something  of  this  before, 
but  she  had  never  realized  it  so  fully  as  now ;  for  he  had 
iniself  confirmed  it,  by  words,  which,  though  simple  in  them- 
elves,  were  unutterably  eloquent,  accompanied  by  such  looks 
—she  blushed  even  in  the  darkness,  as  she  caught  herself  in 
voluntarily  repeating,  "  and  have  I  found  my  pretty  Shakeress 
at  last  ?"  For  two  or  three  days,  Roland  avoided  being  alone 
with  Lucy,  but  to  his  surprise,  she  did  not  seem  to  desire  an 
opportunity  to  renew  her  warnings.  On  the  contrary,  she 
was  more  kind  and  affectionate  towards  Grace  than  she  had 
ever  been  before,  who,  in  the  confidingness  of  innocence,  relied 
on  her  unwonted  testimonies  of  favour,  as  the  harbingers  of 
her  dearest  wishes.  "  Grace,"  said  Lucy — they  were  alone 
and  secure  of  interruption,  for  Mr.  Worthington  and  Roland 
were  both  absent  on  business — "Grace,  are  you  willing  to  tell 
me  of  what  you  are  now  thinking?"  Grace  started — she  had 
fallen  into  an  unconscious  revery,  and  her  work  lay  idly  in 
her  lap ;  her  cheeks  glowed  painfully,  but  with  that  habitual 
reverence  for  truth  which  always  distinguished  her,  she  an 
swered,  "1  was  thinking  of  Roland."  Unprepared  for  such 
perfect  ingenuousness,  Lucy  hesitated  a  moment,  and  con 
science  upbraided  her  for  the  part  she  was  about  to  act,  but 
again  fixing  her  keeu  eye  on  a  countenance  as  transparent  as 
crystal,  she  continued :  "  Has  Roland  ever  told  you  that  he 
loved  you  ?"  Grace  crimsoned  still  more  deeply  from  wounded 
modesty  and  shame,  while  she  answered  in  a  low  voice, 
"Never!"  "Then,"  said  the  inquisitor,  drawing  a  relieving 
oreath,  "  Grace,  your  task  is  easy,  and  I  rejoice  that  he  has 
made  it  so  j  you  must  not  think  of  Roland,  you  must  not  love 
him,  for  he  never  can  be  to  you  anything  more  than  he  now 
is."  Grace  turned  deadly  pale,  but  she  did  not  speak,  and 
Lucy  went  on — "  My  brother  was  my  father's  only  son,  and 
is  sole  heir  of  a  name  long  conspicuous  for  its  honours.  Our 
parents  died  when  we  were  both  young;  but  I,  as  the  elder, 
became  the  guardian  and  guide.  To  me,  on  his  death-bed, 
my  father  committed  my  young  brother,  charging  me  with 
the  solemnity  of  that  awful  hour,  to  guard  his  honour  from 
stain,  and  his  name  from  degradation.  My  father  was  a  proud 
and  haughty  man,  and  he  has  transmitted  to  his  children  a 


THE    SHAKER   GIRL.  117 

portion  of  his  own  spirit.  Grace,  you  have  told  me  all  the 
circumstances  of  your  life;  you  know  there  is  mystery,  but 
you  may  not  know  in  your  extreme  simplicity,  that  there  may 
be  disgrace  in  your  birth.  The  golden  chain  that  wreathes 
your  neck,  shows  that  your  mother  was  not  born  to  poverty. 
Why  then  did  she  flee  from  her  friends,  to  bury  herself  in 
solitude  with  the  dark  and  cruel  man  you  called  father;  and 
why  are  you  an  alien  from  your  kindred  ?  You  ought  to 
know  these  truths,  which  the  mistaken  kindness  of  your 
friends  conceals  from  you,  and  I  reveal  them  to  you,  that  you 
may  not  encourage  hopes  that  never  can  be  realized ;  to  con 
vince  you,  you  can  never  be  the  wife  of  Roland.  For  myself, 
hear  me,  Grace,  to  the  end — if  Roland  could  forget  himself  so 
far  as  to  think  of  such  an  union,  I  would  forever  disown  him 
as  a  brother,  and  load  with  maledictions  the  being  who  had 
brought  such  misery  on  us  both."  All  the  strong  passions 
at  work  in  Lucy's  bosom,  sent  their  baleful  lustre  to  her  eyes, 
and  poor  Grace  shrunk  from  their  beams  as  if  they  were  with 
ering  her  very  heart.  Brought  up  in  the  midst  of  that  gentle 
and  subdued  sisterhood,  in  whose  uniform  existence  the  pas 
sions  seemed  cradled  into  unbroken  slumber,  she  had  almost 
forgotten  their  existence.  The  terrible  dreams  of  her  child 
hood  were  brought  back  to  her.  The  curses  of  her  father  again 
rung  in  her  ears — the  helpless  cries  of  her  mother.  She 
clasped  her  hands  despairingly  over  her  eyes — she  knew  she 
had  been  poor  and  wretched ;  but  benevolence  and  charity  had 
administered  to  her  wants,  and  the  very  remembrance  of  po 
verty  had  faded  from  her  mind ;  but  disgrace — that  there  was 
a  disgrace  attached  to  her  that  made  it  sinful  in  her  to  love 
Roland  Gray,  that  debarred  her  from  an  union  with  the 
honourable  and  good — that  was  the  thought  that  crushed  her, 
that  chilled  her  blood,  and  turned  her  cheeks  to  marble  and 
her  lips  to  ashes.  Lucy  paused,  and  attempted  to  soothe  the 
agony  she  had  excited.  Cold  herself  to  the  softer  emotions, 
she  had  no  faith  in  the  eternity  of  love.  Grace,  like  a  child 
robbed  of  its  plaything,  now  wept  and  refused  to  be  comforted, 
but  she  would  soon  smile  animated  by  some  new-born  hope. 
Thus  Lucy  tried  to  reason,  while  she  held  her  chill  grasp  on 
the  heart  of  Grace,  and  bound  her  still  more  closely  to  her 
will.  "  Promise  me,"  said  she,  "  that  you  will  not  reveal  to 
any  one  the  conversation  of  this  morning — Mr.  Worth!  ngton 
has  deceived  you,  and  you  would  not  meanly  appeal  to  the 
compassion  of  Roland — promise  this,  and  you  shall  find  in  ma 


118  THE   SHAKER   GIRL. 

a  friend  who  will  never  forsake  you  in  weal  or  woe.  Deny  it, 
and  you  will  create  an  enemy  whose  power  can  make  you 
tremble."  Grace,  with  all  her  woman's  pride  rising  to  her 
relief,  at  the  idea  of  appealing  to  the  compassion  of  Roland, 
gave  the  desired  promise,  and  still  more — she  voluntarily  de 
clared  she  would  rather  die  than  think  of  Roland,  after  what 
Lucy  had  just  uttered.  Lucy,  satisfied  with  her  promise,  for 
he  knew  her  truth,  embraced  her  with  commendations  which 
fell  heedlessly  on  poor  Grace's  paralyzed  ears — she  withdrew 
to  her  chamber,  "  for  her  whole  head  was  pained  and  her 
whole  heart  sick ;"  and  when  Mr.  Worthington  and  Roland 
returned,  Grace  was  said  to  be  unable,  from  indisposition,  to 
join  the  circle,  where  she  was  wont  to  preside  an  angel  of  light 
and  joy.  The  sympathy  and  sorrow  excited  by  so  common  an 
event,  reconciled  Lucy  more  than  anything  else,  to  her  sel 
fishness  and  cruelty.  But  was  she  happy  in  the  success  of  her 
operations  !  She  had  planted  thorns  in  the  bosom  of  another 
— but  were  there  none  rankling  in  her  own !  Could  she,  a 
daughter  of  this  land  of  republicanism,  shelter  herself  under 
the  cold  shadow  of  family  pride,  from  the  reproaches  of  her 
own  conscience  ?  Ah  !  no  !  the  heart  is  its  own  avenger,  and 
for  every  drop  of  sorrow  wilfully  wrung  from  the  eyes  of 
another,  shall  be  doomed  to  give  only  tears  of  blood. 

Roland  wondered  at  the  change  that  had  come  over  Grace, 
and  sought  by  every  means  to  ascertain  the  cause,  but  she 
seemed  wrapped  in  a  cloud  of  impenetrable  reserve.  She 
avoided  him,  but  in  so  quiet  a  manner,  it  appeared  to  him 
more  the  result  of  sudden  indifference  or  aversion,  than  unex 
plained  resentment.  The  sunshine  of  her  smile  was  gone,  and 
an  expression  of  calm  apathy  settled  on  her  brow,  where  the 
alternations  of  feeling  had  lately  flitted,  like  the  lights  and 
shadows  of  a  moonlight  landscape.  Roland  sometimes  had  a 
painful  suspicion  of  his  sister,  but  she  had  always  been  so  open 
in  all  her  actions,  so  undisguised  in  her  least  amiable  traits, 
that  notwithstanding  all  the  prejudice  she  had  manifested  to 
wards  Grace,  he  believed  her  incapable  of  any  mean  or  dark 
designings.  Mr.  Worthington  was  anxious  and  alarmed.  He 
was  sure  some  incipient  and  insidious  disease  was  the  cause  of 
her  pale  and  dispirited  appearance.  He  was  constantly  feel- 
iug  her  pulse,  and  inquiring  her  symptoms,  and  insisting  upon 
calling  in  a  physician,  till  poor  Grace,  really  glad  to  shelter 
herself  from  observation,  under  the  pretext  held  out,  acknow 
ledged  herself  ill,  and  passively  submitted  to  a  course  of 


THE   SHAKER   GIRL.  119 

medicine,  which  reduced  her  soon  to  a  state  of  real  debility 
and  suffering.  They  applied  blisters  to  her  forehead  to  still 
its  hot  throbbings ;  they  drew  blood  from  her  veins  to  reduce 
her  feverish  pulse,  and  Lucy  sat  by  her  bedside  and  adminis 
tered  to  her  unweariedly,  and  discussed  the  nature  of  her 
malady,  and  talked  of  its  different  stages ;  while  all  the  time 
she  knew  it  was  herself  who  had  coldly  and  deliberately  dried 
Tip  the  fountain  of  hope  and  joy,  and  love,  which  had  sent  such 
roses  to  her  cheek  and  sunbeams  to  her  eye.  She  sometimes 
trembled  in  the  darkness  of  night,  at  the  possibility  thai 
Grace  might  die,  under  the  regimen  of  this  imaginary  disease  ; 
and  then  a  voice  whispered  in  hollow  murmurs,  in  her  ears, 
"Thou  shalt  sleep  no  more,  for  thou  hast  murdered  sleep." 
But  in  day's  broad  light  a  witness  to  Roland's  abstraction, 
anxiety  and  gloom,  she  steeled  her  conscience,  in  reflecting  ou 
the  necessity  of  the  act.  Let  not  Grace  be  condemned,  as  too 
weak  and  yielding,  as  too  blind  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of 
another.  Her  education  had  been  peculiar,  and  her  natural 
disposition  was  extremely  sensitive  and  timid.  The  first  years 
of  her  life  had  been  passed  in  terror  and  sorrow — terror  for 
her  father's  cruelty,  and  sorrow  for  her  mother's  woe.  Every 
thing  around  her  was  tumultuous  and  fearful,  and  she  learned 
to  shudder  at  the  awful  manifestations  of  evil  passions,  before 
she  knew  them  by  name.  Transplanted  to  a-  scene,  where 
everything  breathed  of  peace  and  silence,  where  industry, 
neatness,  and  order  were  heaven's  first  laws,  where  the  voice 
of  dissension  was  unheard,  and  the  storms  of  passion  unfelt, 
her  spirit  had  been  so  hushed  and  subdued,  her  sensibilities  so 
repressed,  and  her  energies  held  down,  she  moved  along  her 
daily  path  a  piece  of  beautiful  and  exquisite  mechanism,  but 
whose  most  powerful  springs  had  never  been  touched.  It  is 
true  she  loved  the  kind  and  gentle  Shakers,  but  it  was  with  a 
tranquil  feeling  of  gratitude  and  trust.  The  visit  of  Roland 
Gray  acted  as  an  electrical  communication  between  her  and  the 
world  to  which  he  belonged.  It  seemed  to  her  it  must  be 
inhabited  by  angels ;  and  when  Mr.  Worthington  came  and 
induced  her  benefactor  to  resign  her  to  his  care,  she  welcomed 
the  change  as  into  the  garden  of  Eden.  In  the  seclusion  of  a 
school,  her  timidity  still  induced  her  to  shrink  within  herself; 
in  the  companionship  of  Lucy,  she  felt  awe-struck  and  abashed ; 
but  Roland  came,  and  then  she  realized  the  paradise  of  her 
imagination.  Everything  around  her  was  music  and  beauty 
and  love — flowers  sprang  up  in  the  waste  places,  water  gushed 


120  THE   SHAKER   GIRL. 

from  the  rock,  and  melody  filled  the  air.  To  be  forbidden  to 
think  of  him,  to  be  commanded  to  wrench  him  from  her  heart, 
to  be  made  to  think  of  herself  as  a  low  and  disgraced  being — 
Grace  would  have  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  impiety,  but  when 
she  laid  her  head  on  her  pillow,  willing  to  be  thought  sick, 
rather  than  wretched,  she  certainly  wished  to  die.  But  the 
strength  of  youth,  though  prostrated,  rebounded  from  the 
pressure.  She  was  not  doomed  to  the  curse  of  a  granted 
prayer.  The  Providence  that  had  so  long  watched  over  her 
destiny,  still  kept  its  unseen  but  slumbering  vigils.  Grace 
remembered  her  old  friends,  the  Shakers,  and  yearned  once 
more  for  their  still  and  passionless  existence.  She  prayed  Mr. 
Worthington  to  take  her  there  so  earnestly,  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  grant  her  request,  believing  the  journey  would  invigorate 
her  constitution  and  change  of  scene  animate  her  mind.  She 
spoke  not  of  remaining,  and  the  wish  was  so  natural  and  grate 
ful,  it  could  not  excite  surprise  or  censure. 

"You  see,"  said  Lucy  to  her  brother,  the  night  before 
Grace's  departure,  "the  influence  of  early  habits.  Perhaps 
all  this  time  Grace  has  been  pining  after  the  Shakers.  Sho 
has  been  suffering  from  a  kind  of  calenture,  and  when  she 
sees  their  green  plain,  and  quiet  village,  she  will  be  happy  " 
"  Impossible  !"  cried  Roland,  completely  thrown  off  his  guard 
by  Lucy's  sudden  insinuation.  "  She  is  strange  and  unac 
countable,  but  I  never  will  believe  anything  so  preposterous. 
She,  that  sweet,  lovely,  spiritual  creature,  to  be  immured  again 
in  their  cold  walls,  and  to  wish  it,  and  pine  after  it !  By 
heavens !  Lucy,  if  I  could  believe  such  a  thing,  I  would  go 
this  moment  and  prevent  the  immolation.  I  will  not  deceive 
you ;  I  do  not  care  any  longer  for  pride  and  empty  sounding 
names,  and  birth  and  parentage.  It  is  ridiculous  to  think  of 
such  things  in  this  republican  country.  Grace  is  equal  to  the 
highest;  for  she  claims  her  birthright  from  the  Almighty  him 
self,  and  carries  on  her  brow  the  signet  of  heaven."  "  Stop, 
Roland,  for  heaven's  sake,  and  hear  me."  "  I  will  not  stop," 
continued  Roland,  a  spirit  of  determination  flashing  from  his 
eyes  she  had  never  seen  in  them  before ;  "  shall  I  sacrifice  my 
happiness  to  a  shadow,  a  bubble  ?  No  !  I  have  hesitated  too 
long ;  I  love  Grace ;  I  love  her  with  all  my  heart  and  soul, 
and  I  will  go  this  moment  and  tell  her  so."  He  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  latch,  but  Lucy  sprang  forward  like  lightning,  and 
seized  it  in  her  own.  "  One  moment,  Roland,  only  one  mo 
ment  ;  I,  your  only  sister,  ask  it."  Roland  saw  she  was  very 


THE   SHAKER   GIRL.  121 

pale,  and  he  felt  her  hand  tremble  as  it  grasped  him.  She 
was  indeed  his  only  sister,  whom  he  had  so  much  loved,  and 
he  felt  he  had  met  her  prejudices  with  too  much  impetuosity ; 
they  might  yield,  perhaps,  to  softer  measures.  "  What  is  it 
you  would  say,  Lucy  ?  you  asked  for  one  moment,  and  I  have 
given  you  more."  "Only  promise  to  wait  till  her  return; 
that  is  all  I  ask ;  I  spoke  in  jest ;  you  knew  she  would  not  re 
main  ;  Mr.  Worthington  will  never  leave  her.  Promise  me 
this,  dear  Roland,  and  I  will  not  oppose  my  pride  to  your 
happiness."  Lucy  knew  that  she  was  uttering  a  falsehood,  for 
she  herself  had  confirmed  Grace  in  her  resolution  to  remain ; 
but  she  had  begun  to  weave  the  tangled  web  of  deceit,  and 
she  wound  herself  deeper  and  deeper  in  its  folds.  All  she 
wanted  now  was  to  gain  time,  and  she  then  felt  she  should  be 
safe.  Roland  promised,  for  delay  was  not  sacrifice,  and  he 
was  surprised  and  grateful  for  Lucy's  concession. 

"Grace,"  whispered  Lucy,  as  she  embraced  and  bid  her 
farewell,  "  you  are  acting  right ;  you  will  find  peace  and  happi 
ness  in  the  path  you  seek.  Be  assured  of  my  friendship  and 
also  my  gratitude."  Grace  was  mute,  but  she  gave  Lucy  a 
look  that  might  have  melted  a  heart  of  stone. 

"  Grace,"  said  Roland,  "  come  back  to  us  soon."  He  kept 
his  promise  to  his  sister,  but  his  voice  trembled,  his  hand 
lingered  as  it  pressed  hers  in  parting,  and  his  eyes  spoke  a 
language  she  must  have  understood,  had  not  her  own  been 
blinded  with  tears.  She  met  a  warm  reception  from  the  friends 
of  her  early  days.  The  kind  Susan,  who  had  taken  the  first 
charge  of  her,  and  acted  toward  her  a  mother's  part,  opened 
her  arms  to  receive  her,  and  when  she  saw  her  faded  colour 
and  drooping  eyes,  she  felt  as  the  patriarch  did  when  he  took 
in  his  weary  dove  to  the  ark,  for  she  knew  the  wanderer 
brought  back  no  green  olive  branch  of  hope  and  joy.  Susan 
had  once  known  the  gayeties  of  the  world,  and  tasted  its  plea 
sures,  but  her  heart  had  been  blighted  and  her  hopes  6etrayed/ 
and  finding  all  was  vanity,  to  use  her  own  expressive  language 
she  had  "  taken  up  her  cross  and  followed  her  Saviour."  Th 
seal  of  silence  was  placed  on  the  history  of  her  heart,  ana 
Grace  dreamed  not  that  one  of  that  tranquil  tribe  had  ever 
known  the  tumult  of  human  passions.  By  some  mysterious 
communion,  however,  between  soul  and  soul,  Grace  felt  an  as 
surance  of  Susan's  sympathy,  and  clung  to  her  with  increased 
affection.  It  was  long  before  Mr.  Worthington  would  consent 
to  leave  her  behind.  "  Only  a  few  months,"  pleaded  she,  "  and 


122  THE   SHAKER   GIRL. 

then  I  shall  be  well  and  strong  again ;  all  I  need  is  quiet." 
"The  child  is  right,"  added  Susan;  "she  is  weary  of  the 
world,  and  wants  rest.  She  shall  dwell  in  my  tabernacle,  and 
share  my  pillow,  and  I  will  nourish  and  cherish  her  as  my  own 
flesh  and  blood.  She  will  not  be  compelled  to  join  our  wor 
ship,  or  follow  our  rites,  for  we  now  look  upon  her  as  our  guest, 
Dur  daughter  in  love,  but  not  our  sister  in  the  spirit  of  the 
jord."  Satisfied  with  this  promise,  Mr.  Worthington  blessed 
Grace,  embraced  her,  and  left  her,  bidding  her  be  ready  to  re 
turn  when  the  first  leaf  of  autumn  fell.  She  did  not  sit  down 
and  brood  over  the  blighted  hopes  of  her  youth.  She  interested 
herself  in  all  their  neat  and  regular  occupations,  assisted  them 
in  gathering  the  leaves  of  the  medicinal  plants,  in  spreading  them 
on  pieces  of  pure  white  linen  to  dry;  in  collecting  the  garden 
seeds  and  shelling  them  out  of  their  shrunken  capsules,  with 
as  much  readiness  and  grace  as  if  she  had  never  learned  to 
touch  the  keys  of  the  piano,  or  to  school  her  steps  by  the  danc 
ing  master's  rule.  Dressed  in  the  plainest  robes  the  fashions  of 
the  world  allow,  so  as  not  to  offend  the  austerity  of  their  taste, 
with  no  other  ornament  than  her  shining  hair,  simply  parted 
on  her  brow,  she  looked  the  incarnation  of  sweetness  and  hu 
mility  ;  and  Susan,  seeing  her  dawning  colour,  believed  she 
had  found  peace.  "Thus  will  I  live,"  thought  Grace,  "till 
Roland  marries,  and  then  if  my  adopted  father  claims  me,  I 
will  try  to  find  happiness  in  administering  to  his." 

One  evening,  just  as  the  sun  had  set,  she  returned  from  the 
garden,  her  white  apron  gathered  up  before  her,  full  of  damask 
rose  leaves,  while  exercise  and  a  bending  position  had  given 
Ver  cheeks  a  hue,  warm  as  the  twilight's  glow,  and  calling 
eagerly  to  Susan,  to  present  her  offering  for  distillation,  she 
crossed  the  threshold  and  stood  before — Roland  Gray.  Elec 
trified  at  the  sight,  she  let  go  her  apron,  and  the  leaves  fell  in 
a  rosy  shower  around  her.  "  Grace,  dear  Grace  !"  exclaimed 
Roland,  and  both  hands  were  clasped  in  his  own.  Now  she 
had  been  called  dear  Grace,  and  sweet  Grace,  and  pretty  Grace, 
thousand  times  iu  her  life,  but  never  in  such  a  tone,  and 
with  such  eyes  looking  down  into  her  heart.  It  is  easy  to 
imagine  why  Roland  came,  and  how  eloquently  he  proved  to 
Grace  that  he  loved  her  better  than  all  the  world  beside,  and 
that  he  could  not,  and  would  not  live  without  her.  For  a  mo 
ment  a  flood  of  rapture,  deep  and  overwhelming,  flowed  in  upon 
her  heart  from  the  conviction  that  she  was  thus  beloved ;  the 
next,  a  cold  and  freezing  thought  shot  through  it  and  turned 


THE    SHAKER   GIRL.  123 

the  current  to  ice.  Lucy — her  threatened  curse,  her  withering 
enmity,  her  own  promise  of  never  thinking  of  Roland,  and  of 
never  revealing  what  had  passed  between  Lucy  and  herself — • 
all  was  remembered,  and  suddenly  withdrawing  her  hand  from 
his,  she  turned  away  and  wept,  without  the  power  of  self- 
control. 

Roland  was  amazed.  She  had  met  his  avowal  with  such  a 
radiant  blush  and  smile — such  love  and  joy  had  just  lighted 
up  her  modest  eye,  and  now  he  witnessed  every  demonstration 
of  the  most  passionate  grief.  "  Oh,  no  I"  she  cried,  "  it  never 
can  be — I  had  forgotten  it  all ;  but  I  must  not  listen  to  you — 
oh,  no  !"  and  she  repeated  the  interjection  in  such  a  plaintive 
accent,  Roland  was  convinced  there  was  no  deception  in  her 
woe.  In  vain  he  entreated  her  for  an  explanation.  She  could 
not  give  any  consistent  with  her  promise  to  Lucy;  she  could 
only  declare  her  un worthiness,  her  poor  and  perhaps  disgrace 
ful  origin;  and  this  only  called  forth  a  more  impassioned  assur 
ance  of  his  disinterested  love,  and  his  disdain  of  such  scruples. 
He  endeavoured  to  soothe  and  caress,  till  Grace  felt  her  resolu 
tion  and  her  truth  fast  yielding  before  his  influence.  If  she 
could  see  Lucy,  and  be  released  from  her  rash  promise,  all 
might  yet  be  well.  Perhaps  Lucy  herself,  finding  her  brother's 
pride  had  yielded  to  his  love,  would  sanction  the  union.  This 
idea  once  admitted,  changed  despair  into  hope.  "  Wait,"  said 
she,  "  till  I  return,  and  then,  if  the  obstacle  I  fear  no  longer 
exists," — she  paused  a  moment,  and  her  truth-telling  lips  con 
strained  her  to  utter — "  I  shall  be  the  happiest  of  human, 
beings."  Roland,  now  believing  the  obstacle  to  be  Lucy,  re 
solved  she  should  not  stand  any  longer  in  the  way  of  their 
happiness,  pressed  for  no  further  explanation.  He  had  departed 
unknown  to  her,  for  he  dreaded  her  violence.  When  Mr 
Worthington  returned  alone,  he  dreaded  Grace  might  sacrifice 
herself,  as  Lucy  insinuated,  and  determined  to  bear  her  away 
ere  it  was  too  late.  Grace  poured  into  Susan's  calm  but 
sympathizing  ear  the  story  of  her  love  and  the  obstacles  that 
opposed  it.  Her  single  heart  was  too  narrow  to  contain  tho 
fulness  of  her  emotions.  Susan  applauded  her  integrity,  but 
trembled  at  her  idolatry.  She  reminded  her  of  the  mutability 
and  uncertainty  of  all  earthly  things,  and  strengthened  her  in 
the  resolution  never  to  accept  the  vows  of  Roland,  with  tho 
threatened  vengeance  of  Lucy  hanging  over  her  love.  "  Ob, 
she  will  relent !"  cried  Grace ;  "  Roland's  sister  cannot  be  such 
a  monster  "  Had  the  chastened  Susan  witnessed  her  parting 


124  THE   SHAKER   GIRL. 

•with  Roland,  she  would  have  read  a  still  more  solemn  lesson 
on  the  sinfulness  of  earthly  affections;  but  she  only  saw  the 
consequent  sorrow,  which  she  was  too  gentle  to  reprove. 

The  leaves  of  autumn  soon  fell,  and  then  everything  was 
changed  in  the  destiny  of  Grace.  Mr.  Worthington  claimed 
his  child,  and  when  Susan  resigned  her,  her  last  words  bid  her 
pray  for  strength  to  keep  her  virtuous  resolution. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  the  passions  that  struggled 
for  mastery  in  Lucy's  breast,  when  she  learned  from  her  brother 
the  part  he  had  acted.  Incapable  of  concealing  them  at  first, 
and  believing  she  had  lost  the  affection  of  Roland,  she  no 
longer  disguised  the  bitterness  of  her  heart.  She  hated  Grace 
still  more,  since  she  was  conscious  she  had  injured  her,  and 
when  she,  appealing  in  behalf  of  Roland's  happiness  as  well 
as  her  own,  entreated  her  to  free  her  from  her  promise,  she 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  prayer,  and  claimed  the  fulfilment  of 
her  word,  renewing  the  same  fearful  penalty — "  Unless,"  she 
added,  with  a  scornful  smile,  "you  can  prove  your  family 
equal  to  ours,  and  that  your  alliance  will  bring  no  disgrace." 

Strange  paradox  of  the  human  heart !  Had  Lucy  taken 
scorpions  into  her  bosom,  she  could  not  have  suffered  keener 
pangs  than  the  consciousness  of  Roland's  alienated  affection 
caused  her;  yet  she  refused  to  bend  her  stubborn  pride,  and 
•wrapped  herself  up  in  the  sulliuess  of  self-will,  feeling  a  kind 
of  stern  joy  that  she  had  made  others  as  wretched  as  herself. 


Grace  was  standing  in  a  lighted  saloon,  leaning  on  the  arm 
of  Mr.  Worthington,  and  an  unwilling  partaker  of  the  gay 
scene.  A  tall  and  majestic-looking  man  passed  the  spot  where 
she  stood,  whose  appearance  excited  her  interest  and  curiosity, 
for  he  was  evidently  a  stranger  in  the  throng  of  fashion  and 
wealth,  then  gathered  together.  The  suns  of  warmer  climes 
had  darkened  his  face,  and  added  gloom  to  features  of  a  fine 
and  noble  expression.  As  Grace  lifted  her  mild  gray  eyes 
his  somewhat  stern  countenance  relaxed,  and  turning  round  h 
gazed  earnestly  in  her  face.  Abashed  by  his  scrutiny,  she 
moved  into  another  part  of  the  room ;  still  the  tall  stranger 
followed,  with  his  melancholy  eyes,  pursuing  her  figure.  Ro 
land,  never  far  from  the  object  of  his  apparently  hopeless 
devotion,  now  jealous  and  irritated,  drew  to  her  side.  "  Oh, 
Roland,"  said  she,  suddenly  agitated  by  a  new  emotion,  "  there 
ia  something  in  that  stranger's  face,  resembling  this!" — and 


THE   SHAKER   GIRL.  125 

ehe  drew  from  her  bosom  the  miniature  suspended  from  the 
golden  chain.  There  was  indeed  a  resemblance,  only  the  face 
of  the  picture  was  younger,  and  the  sable  locks  unbleached. 
The  stranger  observed  the  motions  of  Grace,  and  pressed  for 
ward,  while  the  miniature  was  still  open  in  her  hand.  "  Par 
don  me,  madam,"  said  he,  earnestly,  "  I  must  be  pardoned 
— but  allow  me  to  look  at  that  picture."  Grace  with  trem 
bling  fingers  unloosed  the  chain,  and  gave  it  into  the  stranger's 
hand.  "  It  was  once  my  mother's,"  said  she,  in  a  faltering 
voice,  "  and  her  name  was  Grace  Goldman."  "  Was" — said 
the  stranger — "  and  yet  how  could  it  be  otherwise? — she  was 
my  sister — my  only  sister — and  you" — he  became  too  much 
agitated  to  finish  the  sentence,  and  entirely  forgetting  the 
throng  that  surrounded  them,  he  clasped  Grace  to  his  bosom, 
as  the  living  representative  of  his  lost  and  lamented  sister. 
Yes  !  in  Mr.  Maitland,  the  rich  merchant,  just  returned  from 
the  East  Indies,  Grace  had  found  an  uncle,  which  proved  her 
lineage  to  be  such,  that  even  the  proud  Lucy  must  acknowledge 
to  be  equal  to  her  own.  His  sister,  the  mother  of  Grace,  had 
eloped,  when  very  young,  with  a  handsome  but  profligate  man, 
and  being  cast  off  by  her  parents,  she  was  soon  doomed  to  eat 
the  bread  of  poverty,  in  consequence  of  her  husband's  ex 
cesses.  Her  brother,  as  soon  as  he  learned  her  situation,  offered 
to  support  her  through  life,  declaring  his  intention  never  to 
marry,  if  she  would  leave  her  unprincipled  husband.  But 
she,  in  the  strength  of  that  passion  which  hopes  all,  believes 
all,  and  endures  all,  refused  to  leave  the  man  she  still  loved, 
and  whom  she  still  trusted  she  might  reclaim.  Her  brother, 
finding  her  wedded  to  her  fate,  left  her  with  a  purse  of  gold 
and  his  own  miniature  as  a  parting  pledge  of  love,  and  depart 
ed  for  a  foreign  land.  Forced  to  fly  from  the  clamours  of  his 
creditors,  Goldman  removed  his  wife  from  place  to  place,  till 
she  was  far  out  of  the  reach  of  former  friends,  when,  plunging 
deeper  and  deeper  in  the  gulf  of  inebriation,  he  left  her  to 
die,  as  we  have  described,  of  a  broken  heart.  For  himself,  he 
died  a  drunkard's  death  by  the  wayside,  and  was  buried  by 
the  same  humane  society  that  protected  his  orphan  child.  This 
circumstance  had  been  concealed  from  Grace,  nor  did  she  learn 
it,  till  her  subsequent  visit  to  the  Shaker  village.  Mr.  Mait 
land,  who  had  dwelt  long  in  other  lands,  accumulating  wealth, 
which  his  generous  heart  longed  to  share  with  the  friends  of  his 
early  youth,  returned  to  mourn  over  the  graves  of  his  parents, 
and  to  seek  in  vain  intelligence  of  his  lost  sister,  till  he  saw 
109 


126  THE   SHAKER   GIRL. 

in  the  crowd  the  lovely  form  of  Grace,  such  as  her  ill-fater] 
mother  was  in  the  days  of  her  beauty  and  youth.  Lucy  could 
with  sincerity  offer  her  congratulations  and  welcome  as  a  sister 
the  niece  of  Mr.  Maitland,  though  she  had  scorned  the  alliance 
of  the  humble  Shaker  girl.  But  she  felt  she  was  degraded  in 
her  eyes,  and  this  was  a  punishment  to  her  proud  spirit,  keener 
than  the  task-master's  lash.  Mr.  Maitland's  gratitude  to  Mr. 
Worthington  was  boundless  as  it  was  warm ;  but  he  longed  to 
see  the  kind  Samaritans,  who  had  soothed  his  sister's  dying 
hours  and  guarded  her  orphan  child. 

It  was  a  happy  day  for  Grace,  when,  as  the  bride  of  Roland, 
she  accompanied  her  husband  and  her  uncle  to  the  home  of 
her  early  youth.  She  introduced  with  pride  the  noble-looking 
stranger  to  all  her  true  and  single-hearted  friends.  "  But 
here,"  said  she,  throwing  her  arms  round  Susan,  "  here  is  my 
mother  and  my  mother's  friend."  Mr.  Maitland  would  gladly 
have  lavished  wealth  upon  them,  in  remuneration  for  their 
cares,  but  they  steadfastly  refused  his  gifts,  asserting  they  had 
only  done  their  duty,  and  merited  no  reward.  "  Do  uuto 
others,  as  we  have  done  towards  yours,"  replied  these  follow 
ers  of  our  Saviour's  golden  rule.  "  When  you  hear  us  reviled 
by  the  world,  and  our  worship  scorned,  and  our  rites  ridi 
culed,  defend  us  if  you  can ;  and  if  one  of  the  disciples  of  our 
creed  should  be  in  need  of  succour,  be  unto  him  as  a  brother, 
and  we  ask  no  more."  "  Dear  Susan,"  said  Grace,  when  the 
parting  hour  arrived,  as  she  lingered  behind  to  bid  her  fare 
well,  "  am  I  not  the  happiest  of  human  beings  ?"  "  I  bless 
God  that  you  are  happy,  my  child,"  answered  Susan,  laying 
her  hand  solemnly  on  her  head — "  and  long,  long  may  you 
remain  so ;  but  forget  not,  days  of  darkness  may  come,  that 
the  bridal  garments  may  be  changed  for  sackcloth,  and  ashes 
be  scattered  over  the  garlands  of  love.  Remember  then,  0 
Grace,  there  is  a  refuge  from  the  woes  and  vanities  of  the 
world,  where  the  spirit  may  wait  in  peace  for  its  everlasting 
home."  Grace  wept,  but  she  smiled  through  her  tears,  and, 
seated  once  more  at  Roland's  side,  she  felt  as  if  darkness  and 
sorrow  could  never  be  her  portion. 


A  RAINY  EVENING. 

A  SKETCH. 


A  PLEASANT  little  group  was  gathered  round  Uncle  Ned'a 
domestic  hearth.  He  sat  on  one  side  of  the  fire-place,  oppo 
site  Aunt  Mary,  who,  with  her  book  in  her  hand,  watched  the 
children  seated  at  the  table,  some  reading,  others  sewing,  all 
occupied,  but  one,  a  child  "  of  larger  growth,"  a  young  lady, 
who,  being  a  guest  of  the  family,  was  suffered  to  indulge  in 
the  pleasure  of  idleness  without  reproof. 

"  Oh  !  I  love  a  rainy  evening,"  said  little  Ann,  looking  up 
from  her  book,  and  meeting  her  mother's  smiling  glance,  "  it 
is  so  nice  to  sit  by  a  good  fire  and  hear  the  rain  pattering 
against  the  windows.  Only  I  pity  the  poor  people  who  have 
no  house  to  cover  them,  to  keep  off  the  rain  and  the  cold." 

"  And  I  love  a  rainy  evening,  too,"  cried  George,  a  boy  of 
about  twelve.  "  I  can  study  so  much  better.  My  thoughts 
stay  at  home,  and  don't  keep  rambling  out  after  the  bright 
moon  and  stars.  My  heart  feels  warmer,  and  I  really  believe 
I  love  everybody  better  than  I  do  when  the  weather  is  fair." 

Uncle  Ned  smiled,  and  gave  the  boy  an  approving  pat  on 
the  shoulder.  Every  one  smiled  but  the  young  lady,  who 
with  a  languid,  discontented  air,  now  played  with  a  pair  of  scis 
sors,  now  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  book,  then,  with  an  ill- 
suppressed  yawn,  leaned  idly  on  her  elbow,  and  looked  into 
the  fire. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  a  rainy  evening,  Elizabeth  ?'* 
asked  Uncle  Ned.  "  I  should  like  to  hear  your  opinion  also/' 

"  I  think  it  over  dull  and  uninteresting,  indeed,"  answered 

(127) 


128  A  RAINY   EVENING. 

she.  "  I  always  feel  so  stupid,  I  can  hardly  keep  myself  awak* 
— one  cannot  go  abroad,  or  hope  to  see  company  at  home;  and 
one  gets  so  tired  of  seeing  the  same  faces  all  the  time.  I  can 
not  imagine  what  George  and  Ann  see  to  admire  so  much  in  a 
disagreeable  rainy  evening  like  this." 

"  Supposing  I  tell  you  a  story,  to  enliven  you  ?"  said  Uncle 
Ned. 

"  Oh !  yes,  father,  please  tell  us  a  story,"  exclaimed  the 
children,  simultaneously. 

Little  Ann  was  perched  upon  his  knee  as  if  by  magic,  and 
even  Elizabeth  moved  her  chair,  as  if  excited  to  some  degree 
of  interest.  George  still  held  his  book  in  his  hand,  but  his 
bright  eyes,  sparkling  with  unusual  animation,  were  riveted 
upon  his  uncle's  face. 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  story  about  a  rainy  evening," 
said  Uncle  Ned. 

"  Oh !  that  will  be  so  pretty !"  cried  Ann,  clapping  her 
hands ;  but  Elizabeth's  countenance  fell  below  zero.  It  was 
an  ominous  annunciation. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Uncle  Ned,  "  a  rainy  evening.  But 
though  clouds  darker  than  those  which  now  mantle  the  sky 
were  lowering  abroad,  and  the  rain  fell  heavier  and  faster,  the 
rainbow  of  my  life  was  drawn  most  beautifully  on  those  dark 
clouds,  and  its  fair  colours  still  shine  most  lovely  on  the  sight. 
It  is  no  longer,  however,  the  bow  of  promise,  but  the  realiza 
tion  of  my  fondest  dreams." 

George  saw  his  uncle  cast  an  expressive  glance  towards  the 
handsome  matron  in  the  opposite  corner,  whose  colour  per 
ceptibly  heightened,  and  he  could  not  forbear  exclaiming — 

u  Ah  !  Aunt  Mary  is  blushing.  I  understand  uncle's  meta 
phor.  She  is  his  rainbow,  and  he  thinks  life  one  long  rainy 
day." 

"  Not  exactly  so.  I  mean  your  last  conclusion.  But  don't 
interrupt  me,  my  boy,  and  you  shall  hear  a  lesson,  which, 
young  as  you  are,  I  trust  you  will  never  forget.  When  I  was 
a  young  man  I  was  thought  quite  handsome — " 

"  Pa  is  as  pretty  as  he  can  be,  now,"  interrupted  little  Ann, 
passing  her  hand  fondly  over  his  manly  cheek. 

Uncle  Ned  was  not  displeased  with  the  compliment,  for  he 
pressed  her  closer  to  him,  while  he  continued — 

"  Well,  when  I  was  young  I  was  of  a  gay  spirit,  and  a  great 
favourite  in  society.  The  young  ladies  liked  me  for  a  partner 
in  the  dance,  at  the  chess-board,  or  the  evening  walk,  and  I 


A  RAINY  EVENING.  129 

Lad  reason  to  think  several  of  them  would  have  made  no  ob 
jection  to  take  me  as  a  partner  for  life.  Among  all  my  young 
acquaintances,  there  was  no  one  whose  companionship  was  so 
pleasing  as  that  of  a  maiden  whose  name  was  Mary.  Now, 
there  are  a  great  many  Marys  in  the  world,  so  you  must  not 
take  it  for  granted  I  mean  your  mother  or  aunt.  At  any  rate, 
you  must  not  look  so  significant  till  I  have  finished  my  story. 
Mary  was  a  sweet  and  lovely  girl — with  a  current  of  cheerful 
ness  running  through  her  disposition  that  made  music  as  it 
flowed.  It  was  an  under  current,  however,  always  gentle,  and 
kept  within  its  legitimate  channel;  never  overflowing  into 
boisterous  mirth  or  unmeaning  levity.  She  was  the  only 
daughter  of  her  mother,  and  she  a  widow.  Mrs.  Carlton, 
such  was  her  mother's  name,  was  in  lowly  circumstances,  and 
Mary  had  none  of  the  appliances  of  wealth  and  fashion  to 
decorate  her  person,  or  gild  her  home.  A  very  modest  com 
petency  was  all  her  portion,  and  she  wished  for  nothing  more. 
I  have  seen  her,  in  a  simple  white  dress,  without  a  single  orna 
ment,  unless  it  was  a  natural  rose,  transcend  all  the  gaudy 
belles,  who  sought  by  the  attractions  of  dress  to  win  the  admi 
ration  of  the  multitude.  But,  alas !  for  poor  human  nature. 
One  of  these  dashing  belles  so  fascinated  my  attention,  that 
the  gentle  Mary  was  for  a  while  forgotten.  Theresa  Vane  was, 
indeed,  a  rare  piece  of  mortal  mechanism.  Her  figure  was 
the  perfection  of  beauty,  and  she  moved  as  if  strung  upon 
wires,  so  elastic  and  springing  were  her  gestures.  I  never 
saw  such  lustrous  hair — it  was  perfectly  black,  and  shone  like 
burnished  steel;  and  then  such  ringlets  !  How  they  waved 
and  rippled  down  her  beautiful  neck !  She  dressed  with  the 
most  exquisite  taste,  delicacy,  and  neatness,  and  whatever  she 
wore  assumed  a  peculiar  grace  and  fitness,  as  if  art  loved  to 
adorn  what  nature  made  so  fair.  But  what  charmed  me  most 
was,  the  sunshiny  smile  that  was  always  waiting  to  light  up 
her  countenance.  To  be  sure,  she  sometimes  laughed  a  little 
too  loud,  but  then  her  laugh  was  so  musical,  and  her  teeth  so 
white,  it  was  impossible  to  believe  her  guilty  of  rudeness,  01 
want  of  grace.  Often,  when  I  saw  her  in  the  social  circle,  so 
brilliant  and  smiling,  the  life  and  charm  of  everything  around 
her,  I  thought  how  happy  the  constant  companionship  of  such 
a  being  would  make  me — what  brightness  she  would  impart 
to  the  fireside  of  home — what  light,  what  joy,  to  the  darkest 
scenes  of  existence  I" 

"  Oh !  uncle,"  interrupted  George,  laughing,  "  if  I  were 


130  A  RAINY  EVENING. 

Aunt  Mary,  I  would  not  let  you  praise  any  other  lady  so 
warmly.  You  are  so  taken  up  with  her  beauty,  you  have  for 
gotten  all  about  the  rainy  evening." 

Aunt  Mary  smiled,  but  it  is  more  than  probable  that  George 
really  touched  one  of  the  hidden  springs  of  her  woman's  heart, 
for  she  looked  down,  and  said  nothing. 

"  Don't  be  impatient,"  said  Uncle  Ned,  "  and  you  shall  not 
be  cheated  out  of  your  story.  I  began  it  for  Elizabeth's  sake, 
rather  than  yours,  and  I  see  she  is  wide  awake.  She  thinks 
I  was  by  this  time  more  than  half  in  love  with  Theresa  Vane, 
and  she  thinks  more  than  half  right.  There  had  been  a  great 
many  parties  of  pleasure,  riding  parties,  sailing  parties,  and 
talking  parties;  and  summer  slipped  by,  almost  unconsciously. 
At  length  the  autumnal  equinox  approached,  and  gathering 
clouds,  north-eastern  gales,  and  drizzling  rains,  succeeded  to 
the  soft  breezes,  mellow  skies,  and  glowing  sunsets,  peculiar 
to  that  beautiful  season.  For  two  or  three  days  I  was  con 
fined  within  doors  by  the  continuous  rains,  and  I  am  sorry  to 
confess  it,  but  the  blue  devils  actually  got  complete  possession 
of  me — one  strided  upon  my  nose,  another  danced  on  the  top 
of  my  head,  one  pinched  my  ear,  and  another  turned  somersets 
on  my  chin.  You  laugh,  little  Nanny;  but  they  are  terrible 
creatures,  these  blue  gentlemen,  and  I  could  not  endure  them 
any  longer.  So  the  third  rainy  evening,  I  put  on  my  over 
coat,  buttoned  it  up  to  my  chin,  and  taking  my  umbrella  in 
my  hand,  set  out  in  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Vane's.  '  Here/ 
thought  I,  as  my  fingers  pressed  the  latch,  '  I  shall  find  the 
moonlight  smile,  that  will  illumine  the  darkness  of  my  night 
— the  dull  vapours  will  disperse  before  her  radiant  glance,  and 
this  interminable  equinoctial  storm  be  transformed  into  a  mere 
vernal  shower,  melting  away  in  sunbeams  in  her  presence.' 
My  gentle  knock  not  being  apparently  heard,  I  stepped  into 
the  ante-room,  set  down  my  umbrella,  took  off  my  drenched 
overcoat,  arranged  my  hair  in  the  most  graceful  manner,  and, 
claiming  a  privilege  to  which,  perhaps,  I  had  no  legitimate 
right,  opened  the  door  of  the  family  sitting-room,  and  found 
myself  in  the  presence  of  the  beautiful  Theresa — " 

Here  Uncle  Ned  made  a  provoking  pause. 

"Pray,  go  on."  "How  was  she  dressed?"  "And  was 
she  glad  to  see  you  ?*'  assailed  him  on  every  side. 

"  How  was  she  dressed?"  repeated  he.  "I  am  not  very 
well  skilled  in  the  technicalities  of  a  lady's  wardrobe,  but  I 
can  give  you  the  general  impression  of  her  personal  appear- 


A  RAINY  EVENING.  IS] 

ance.  In  the  first  place,  there  was  a  jumping  up  and  an  off 
hand  sliding  step  towards  an  opposite  door,  as  I  entered ;  but 
a  disobliging  chair  was  in  the  way,  and  I  was  making  my 
lowest  bow,  before  she  found  an  opportunity  of  disappearing. 
Confused  and  mortified,  she  scarcely  returned  my  salutation, 
while  Mrs.  Vane  offered  me  a  chair,  and  expressed,  in  some 
what  dubious  terms,  their  gratification  at  such  an  unexpected 
pleasure.  I  have  no  doubt  Theresa  wished  me  at  the  bottom 
of  the  Frozen  Ocean,  if  I  might  judge  by  the  freezing  glances 
she  shot  at  me  through  her  long  lashes.  She  sat  uneasily  in 
her  chair,  trying  to  conceal  her  slipshod  shoes,  and  furtively 
arranging  her  dress  about  the  shoulders  and  waist.  It  was  a 
most  rebellious  subject,  for  the  body  and  skirt  were  at  open 
warfare,  refusing  to  have  any  communion  with  each  other. 
Where  was  the  graceful  shape  I  had  so  much  admired  ?  In  vain  I 
sought  its  exquisite  outlines  in  the  folds  of  that  loose,  slovenly 
robe.  Where  were  those  glistening  ringlets  and  burnished 
locks  that  had  so  lately  rivalled  the  tresses  of  Medusa  ?  Her 
hair  was  put  in  tangled  bunches  behind  her  ears,  and  tucked  up 
behind  in  a  kind  of  Gordian  knot,  which  would  have  required 
the  sword  of  an  Alexander  to  untie.  Her  frock  was  a  soiled 
and  dingy  silk,  with  trimmings  of  sallow  blonde,  and  a  faded 
fancy  handkerchief  was  thrown  over  one  shoulder. 

"  '  You  have  caught  me  completely  en  deshabille,'  said  she, 
recovering  partially  from  her  embarrassment ;  '  but  the  even 
ing  was  so  rainy,  and  no  one  but  mother  and  myself,  I  never 
dreamed  of  such  an  exhibition  of  gallantry  as  this.' 

"  She  could  not  disguise  her  vexation,  with  all  her  efforts  to 
conceal  it,  and  Mrs.  Vane  evidently  shared  her  daughter's 
chagrin.  I  was  wicked  enough  to  enjoy  their  confusion,  and 
never  appeared  more  at  my  ease,  or  played  the  agreeable  with 
more  signal  success.  I  was  disenchanted  at  once,  and  my 
mind  revelled  in  its  recovered  freedom.  My  goddess  had 
fallen  from  the  pedestal  on  which  my  imagination  had  en 
throned  her,  despoiled  of  the  beautiful  drapery  which  had 
imparted  to  her  such  ideal  loveliness.  I  knew  that  I  was  a 
favourite  in  the  family,  for  I  was  wealthy  and  independent, 
and  perhaps  of  all  Theresa's  admirers  what  the  world  would 
call  the  best  match.  I  maliciously  asked  her  to  play  on  the 
piano,  but  she  made  a  thousand  excuses,  studiously  keeping 
back  the  true  reason,  her  disordered  attire.  I  asked  her  to 
play  a  game  of  chess,  but  '  she  had  a  headache  j  she  was  too 
stupid ;  she  never  could  do  anything  on  a  rainy  evening.' 


132  A  RAINY   EVENING. 

"  At  length  I  took  my  leave,  inwardly  blessing  the  moving 
spirit  which  had  led  me  abroad  that  night,  that  the  spell  which 
had  so  long  enthralled  my  senses  might  be  broken.  Theresa 
called  up  one  of  her  lambent  smiles  as  I  bade  her  adieu. 

"  '  Never  call  again  on  a  rainy  evening/  said  she,  sport 
ively  ;  '  I  am  always  so  wretchedly  dull.  I  believe  I  was  bora 
•to  live  among  the  sunbeams,  the  moonlight,  and  the  stars. 
Clouds  will  never  do  for  me.' 

"  '  Amen/  I  silently  responded,  as  I  closed  the  door.  While 
I  was  putting  on  my  coat,  I  overheard,  without  the  smallest 
intention  of  listening,  a  passionate  exclamation  from  Theresa. 

"  '  Good  heavens,  mother !  was  there  ever  anything  so  un 
lucky  ?  I  never  thought  of  seeing  my  neighbour's  dog  to-night. 
If  I  have  not  been  completely  caught !' 

"  f  I  hope  you  will  mind  my  advice  next  time/  replied  her 
mother,  in  a  grieved  tone.  '  I  told  you  not  to  sit  down  in 
that  slovenly  dress.  I  have  no  doubt  you  have  lost  him  for 
ever.' 

"  Here  I  made  good  my  retreat,  not  wishing  to  enter  the 
penetralia  of  family  secrets. 

"  The  rain  still  continued  unabated,  but  my  social  feelings 
were  very  far  from  being  damped.  I  had  the  curiosity  to  make 
another  experiment.  The  evening  was  not  very  far  advanced, 
and  as  I  turned  from  Mrs.  Vane's  fashionable  mansion,  I  saw 
a  modest  light  glimmering  in  the  distance,  and  I  hailed  it  as 
the  shipwrecked  mariner  hails  the  star  that  guides  him  o'er 
ocean's  foam  to  the  home  he  has  left  behind.  Though  I  was 
gay  and  young,  and  a  passionate  admirer  of  beauty,  I  had  very 
exalted  ideas  of  domestic  felicity.  I  knew  that  there  was 
many  a  rainy  day  in  life,  and  I  thought  the  companion  who 
was  born  alone  for  sunbeams  and  moonlight,  would  not  aid  me 
to  dissipate  their  gloom.  I  had,  moreover,  a  shrewd  suspi 
cion  that  the  daughter  who  thought  it  a  sufficient  excuse  for 
shameful  personal  neglect,  that  there  was  no  one  present  but 
her  mother,  would,  as  a  wife,  be  equally  regardless  of  a  hus 
band's  presence.  While  I  pursued  these  reflections,  my  feet 
involuntarily  drew  nearer  and  more  near  to  the  light,  which 
had  been  the  loadstone  of  my  opening  manhood.  I  had  con 
tinued  to  meet  Mary  in  the  gay  circles  I  frequented,  but  I  had 
lately  become  almost  a  stranger  to  her  home.  '  Shall  I  be  a 
welcome  guest  ?'  said  I  to  myself,  as  I  crossed  the  threshold. 
'  Shall  I  find  her  en  deshabille,  likewise,  and  discover  that 
feminine  beauty  and  grace  are  incompatible  with  a  rainy  even- 


A  RAINY  EVENING.  133 

ing  ?'  I  heard  a  sweet  voice  reading  aloud  as  I  opened  the 
door,  and  I  knew  it  was  the  voice  which  was  once  music  to  my 
ears.  Mary  rose  at  my  entrance,  laying  her  book  quietly  on 
the  table,  and  greeted  me  with  a  modest  grace  and  self-posses 
sion  peculiar  to  herself.  She  looked  surprised,  a  little  embar 
rassed,  but  very  far  from  being  displeased.  She  made  no 
allusion  to  my  estrangement  or  neglect;  expressed  no  astonish 
ment  at  my  untimely  visit,  nor  once  hinted  that,  being  along 
with  her  mother,  and  not  anticipating  visiters,  she  thought  it 
unnecessary  to  wear  the  habiliments  of  a  lady.  Never,  in  iny 
life,  had  I  seen  her  look  so  lovely.  Her  dress  was  perfectly 
plain,  but  every  fold  was  arranged  by  the  hand  of  the  Graces. 
Her  dark-brown  hair,  which  had  a  natural  wave  in  it,  now 
uncurled  by  the  dampness,  was  put  back  in  smooth  ringlets 
from  her  brow,  revealing  a  face  which  did  not  consider  its 
beauty  wasted  because  a  mother's  eye  alone  rested  on  its  bloom. 
A  beautiful  cluster  of  autumnal  roses,  placed  in  a  glass  vase 
on  the  table,  perfumed  the  apartment,  and  a  bright  blaze  on 
the  hearth  diffused  a  spirit  of  cheerfulness  around,  while  it 
relieved  the  atmosphere  of  its  excessive  moisture.  Mrs.  Carl- 
ton  was  an  invalid,  and  suffered  also  from  an  inflammation  of 
the  eyes.  Mary  had  been  reading  aloud  to  her  from  her  favour 
ite  book.  What  do  you  think  it  was  ?  It  was  a  very  old-fash 
ioned  one,  indeed.  No  other  than  the  Bible.  And  Mary  was 
not  ashamed  to  have  such  a  fashionable  young  gentleman  as  1 
then  was  to  see  what  her  occupation  had  been.  What  a  con 
trast  to  the  scene  I  had  just  quitted  !  How  I  loathed  myself 
for  the  infatuation  which  had  led  me  to  prefer  the  artificial 
graces  of  a  belle  to  this  pure  child  of  nature !  I  drew  my 
chair  to  the  table,  and  entreated  that  they  would  not  look  upon 
me  as  a  stranger,  but  as  a  friend,  anxious  to  be  restored  to  the 
forfeited  privileges  of  an  old  acquaintance.  I  was  understood 
in  a  moment,  and,  without  a  single  reproach,  was  admitted 
again  to  confidence  and  familiarity.  The  hours  I  had  wasted 
with  Theresa  seemed  a  kind  of  mesmeric  slumber,  a  blank  in 
my  existence,  or,  at  least,  a  feverish  dream.  '  What  do  you 
think  of  a  rainy  evening,  Mary  ?'  asked  I,  before  I  left  her. 

"  '  I  love  it  of  all  things,'  replied  she,  with  animation. 
'There  is  something  so  home-drawing,  so  heart-knitting,  in  its 
influence.  The  dependencies  which  bind  us  to  the  world  seem 
withdrawn ;  and,  retiring  within  ourselves,  we  learn  more  of 
the  deep  mysteries  of  our  own  being.' 

"  Mary's  soul  beamed  from  her  eye  as  it  turned,  with  a  tran- 


134-  A  RAINY  EVENING. 

eient  obliquity,  towards  heaven.  She  paused,  as  if  fearful  of 
unsealing  the  fountains  of  her  heart.  I  said  that  Mrs.  Carl- 
ton  was  an  invalid,  and  consequently  retired  early  to  her  cham 
ber;  but  I  lingered  till  a  late  hour,  nor  did  1  go  till  I  hud 
made  a  full  confession  of  my  folly,  repentance,  and  awakened 
love ;  and,  as  Mary  did  not  shut  the  door  iu  my  face,  you  may 
magine  she  was  not  sorely  displeased." 

"  Ah  !  I  know  who  Mary  was.  I  knew  all  the  time,"  ex 
claimed  G-eorge,  looking  archly  at  Aunt  Mary.  A  bright  tear, 
which  at  that  moment  fell  into  her  lap,  showed  that  though  a 
silent,  she  was  no  uninterested  auditor. 

"You  haven't  done,  father?"  said  little  Ann,  in  a  disappoint 
ed  tone ;  "  I  thought  you  were  going  to  tell  a  story.  You 
have  been  talking  about  yourself  all  the  time." 

"  I  have  been  something  of  an  egotist,  to  be  sure,  my  little 
girl,  but  I  wanted  to  show  my  dear  young  friend  here  how 
much  might  depend  upon  a  rainy  evening.  Life  is  not  made 
all  of  sunshine.  The  happiest  and  most  prosperous  must  have 
their  seasons  of  gloom  and  darkness,  and  woe  be  to  those  from, 
whose  souls  no  rays  of  brightness  emanate  to  gild  those  dark 
ened  hours.  I  bless  the  God  of  the  rain  as  well  as  the  sun 
shine.  I  can  read  His  mercy  and  His  love  as  well  in  the 
tempest,  whose  wings  obscure  the  visible  glories  of  His  crea 
tion,  as  in  the  splendour  of  the  rising  sun,  or  the  soft  dews 
that  descend  after  his  setting  radiance.  I  began  with  a  meta 
phor.  I  said  a  rainbow  was  drawn  on  the  clouds  that  lowered 
on  that  eventful  day,  and  that  it  still  continued  to  shine  with 
undiminished  beauty.  Woman,  my  children,  was  sent  by  God 
to  be  the  rainbow  of  man's  darker  destiny.  From  the  glowing 
red,  emblematic  of  that  love  which  warms  and  gladdens  his 
existence,  to  the  violet  melting  into  the  blue  of  heaven,  sym 
bolical  of  the  faith  which  links  him  to  a  purer  world,  her 
blending  virtues,  mingling  with  each  other  in  beautiful  har 
mony,  are  a  token  of  God's  mercy  here,  and  an  earnest  of 
future  blessings  in  those  regions  where  no  rainy  evenings  ever 
come  to  obscure  the  brightness  of  eternal  day." 


THREE  SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A  BELLE. 


THERE  was  a  rushing  to  and  fro  in  the  chamber  of  Ellen 
Loring,  a  tread  of  hurrying  feet,  a  mingled  hum  of  voices,  au 
opening  and  shutting  of  doors,  as  if  some  event  of  overwhelm 
ing  importance  agitated  the  feelings,  and  moved  the  frames  of 
every  individual  in  the  house.     A  stranger,  in  the  apartment 
below,  might  have  imagined  an  individual  was  dying,  and  that 
all  were  gathering  round  to  offer  the  appliances  of  love  and 
sympathy.     But  Ellen  Loring,  the  object  of  all  this  commo 
tion,  was  in  all  the  bloom  and  beauty  of  health.     She  sat  in 
a  low  chair  and  in  front  of  a  large  mirror,  half-arrayed  in  the 
habiliments  of  the  ball-room,  her  head  glowmg  with  flowers, 
and  streaming  with  ringlets,  her  feet  encased  in  silk  cobweb 
and  white  satin,  her  face  flushed  with  excitement,  her  waist 
compressed  into   the    smallest   possible   compass,  while   the 
strongest  fingers  the  household  could  supply,  were  drawing  to 
gether  the  last  reluctant  hook  and  eye,  which  fastened  the  rich 
and  airy  mixture  of  satin  blonde,  that  fell  in  redundant  folds 
round  her  slender  person.     "  I  am  afraid,  Ellen,  your  dress  is 
rather  too  tight,"  said  Mrs.  Loring,  who  was  superintending 
the  process  with  a  keen  and  experienced  eye;  "you  had  better 
not  wear  it,  it  may  give  you  a  consumption."     "  Ridiculous  I" 
exclaimed  Ellen,  "  it  feels  perfectly  loose  and  comfortable ;  1  , 
am  sure  it  fits  delightfully.    Look,  Agnes,"  addressing  a  weary-  ' 
looking  girl  who  had  been  standing  more  than  half  an  hour 
over  her,  arranging  her  hair  in  the  most  fashionable  style. 
"Look,  Agnes,  is  it  not  beautiful?" 

"Very  beautiful,"  answered  Agnes;  "but  I  think  it  would 
look  much  better  if  it  were  not  so  very  low,  and  the  night  is  so 
cold,  I  am  sure  you  will  suffer  without  something  thrown 

(135) 


136  THREE   SCENES   IN   THE  LIFE   OP  A  BELLE. 

over  your  shoulders.  These  pearl  beads  are  very  ornamental, 
but  they  will  not  give  warmth,"  lifting  them  up  as  she  spoke, 
from  a  neck  that  "  rivalled  their  whiteness."  Ellen  burst 
into  a  scornful  laugh,  and  declared  she  would  rather  catch  her 
death-cold,  than  look  so  old-fashioned  and  old-womanish. 
Mrs.  Loring  here  interposed,  and  insisted  that  Ellen  should 
wear  a  shawl  into  the  ball-room,  and  to  be  sure  to  put  it 
around  her  when  she  was  not  dancing,  "for  you  must 
remember,"  added  she,  "  the  dreadful  cough  you  had  last 
winter ;  when  you  caught  cold,  I  was  really  apprehensive  of  a 
consumption." 

"  I  do  think,  mother,  you  must  be  haunted  by  the  ghost  of 
consumption.  Everything  you  say  begins  and  ends  with  con 
sumption — /  am  not  afraid  of  the  ghost,  or  the  reality,  while 
such  roses  as  these  bloom  on  my  cheeks,  and  such  elastic  limbs 
as  these  bear  me  through  the  dance." 

Mrs.  Loring  looked  with  admiring  fondness  on  her  daugh 
ter,  as  she  danced  gayly  before  the  looking-glass,  called  her  a 
"  wild,  thoughtless  thing,"  and  thought  it  would  be  indeed  a 
pity  to  muffle  such  a  beautiful  neck  in  a  clumsy  'kerchief. 
The  carriage  was  announced,  and  Agnes  was  despatched  in  a 
hundred  directions  for  the  embroidered  handkerchief,  the 
scented  gloves,  and  all  the  et  ceteras,  which  crowd  on  the 
memory  at  the  last  moment.  Agnes  followed  the  retreating 
form  of  Ellen  with  a  long  and  wistful  gaze,  then  turned  with 
a  sigh  to  collect  the  scattered  artl/les  of  finery  that  strewed  the 
room.  "  Happy  Ellen  I"  said  she  to  herself,  "  happy,  beau 
tiful  Ellen  !  favoured  by  nature  and  fortune.  Every  desire 
of  her  heart  is  gratified.  She  moves  but  to  be  admired,  flat 
tered,  and  caressed.  While  I,  a  poor,  dependent  relative,  am 
compelled  to  administer  to  her  vanity  and  wait  upon  her 
caprices — oh  !  if  I  were  only  rich  and  beautiful  like  Ellen  !  I 
would  willingly  walk  over  burning  ploughshares  to  obtain  the 
happiness  that  is  in  store  for  her  to-night." 

While  the  repining  Agnes  followed  Ellen,  in  imagination,  to 
scenes  which  appeared  to  her  fancy  like  the  dazzling  pictures 
described  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  let  us  enter  the  ball-room 
and  follow  the  footsteps  of  her,  whose  favoured  lot  led  her 
through  the  enchanted  land.  The  hall  was  brilliantly  lighted, 
the  music  was  of  the  most  animating  kind,  airy  forms  floated 
on  the  gaze,  most  elaborately  and  elegantly  adorned,  and  in 
the  midst  of  these  Ellen  shone  transcendent.  For  a  while, 
tar  enjoyment  realized  even  the  dreams  of  Agnes.  Conscious 


THREE   SCENES  IN   THE  LIFE   OF  A  BELLE.  137 

of  being  admired,  she  glided  through  the  dance,  gracefully 
holding  her  flowing  drapery,  smiling,  blushing,  coquetting  and 
flirting.  Compliments  were  breathed  continually  into  her  ears. 
She  was  compared  to  the  sylphs,  the  graces,  the  muses,  the 
houris,  and  even  to  the  angels  that  inhabit  the  celestial  city. 
Yes,  this  daughter  of  fashion,  this  devotee  of  pleasure,  this 
vain  and  thoughtless  being,  who  lived  without  God  in  the 
world,  was  told  by  flattering  lips,  that  she  resembled  those 
pure  and  glorified  spirits  which  surround  the  throne  of  the 
Most  High,  and  sing  the  everlasting  song  of  Moses  and  the 
Lamb — and  she  believed  it.  Perhaps  some  may  assert  that 
the  daughters  of  fashion  are  not  always  forgetful  of  their  God, 
for  they  are  often  heard  to  call  upon  his  great  and  holy  name, 
in  a  moment  of  sudden  astonishment  or  passion,  and  were  a 
saint  to  witness  their  uplifted  eyes  and  clasped  hands,  he  might 
deem  them  wrapt  in  an  ecstasy  of  devotion. 

Ellen,  in  the  midst  of  almost  universal  homage,  began  to 
feel  dissatisfied  and  weary.  There  was  one  who  had  been  in 
the  train  of  her  admirers,  himself  the  star  of  fashion,  who  was 
evidently  offering  incense  at  a  new  shrine.  A  fair  young 
stranger,  who  seemed  a  novice  in  the  splendid  scene,  drew  him 
from  her  side,  and  from  that  moment  the  adulation  of  others 
ceased  to  charm.  She  danced  more  gayly,  she  laughed  more 
loudly,  to  conceal  the  mortification  and  envy  that  was  spread 
ing  through  her  heart ;  but  the  triumph,  the  joy  was  over. 
She  began  to  feel  a  thousand  inconveniences,  of  whose  existence 
she  seemed  previously  unconscious.  Her  feet  ached  from  the 
lightness  of  her  slippers,  her  respiration  was  difficult  from  the 
tightness  of  her  dress;  she  was  glad  when  the  hour  of  her 
departure  arrived.  Warm  from  the  exercise  of  the  dance,  and 
panting  from  fatigue,  she  stood  a  few  moments  on  the  pave 
ment,  waiting  for  some  obstructions  to  be  removed  in  the 
way  of  the  carriage.  The  ground  was  covered  with  a  sheet 
of  snow,  which  had  fallen  during  the  evening,  and  made  a 
chill  bed  for  her  feet,  so  ill  defended  from  the  inclement  sea 
son.  The  night  air  blew  damp  and  cold  on  her  neck  an 
shoulders,  for  her  cloak  was  thrown  loosely  around  her,  thaj 
her  beauty  might  not  be  entirely  veiled,  till  the  gaze  of  admi-- 
ration  was  withdrawn. 

Agnes  sat  by  the  lonely  fireside,  waiting  for  the  return  of 
Ellen.  For  a  while  she  kept  up  a  cheerful  blaze,  and  as  she 
heard  the  gust  sweep  by  the  windows,  it  reminded  her  that 
Ellen,  would  probably  come  in  shivering  with  cold  and  reproach 


138  THREE   SCENES  IN   THE  LIFE   OF  A  BELLE. 

her,  if  she  did  not  find  a  glowing  hearth  to  welcome  her.  She 
applied  fresh  fuel,  till,  lulled  by  the  monotonous  sound  of  the 
wind,  she  fell  asleep  in  her  chair,  nor  waked  till  the  voice  of 
Ellen  roused  her  from  her  slumbers.  A  few  dull  embers  were 
all  that  was  left  of  the  fire,  the  candle  gleamed  faintly  beneath 
a  long,  gloomy  wick — everything  looked  cold  and  comfortless. 
r  It  was  long  before  poor  Agnes  could  recall  the  cheering 
warmth.  In  the  mean  time,  Ellen  poured  upon  her  a  torrent 
of  reproaches,  and  tossing  her  cloak  on  a  chair,  declared  she 
would  never  go  to  another  ball  as  long  as  she  lived — she  bad 
been  tired  to  death,  chilled  to  death,  and  now  to  be  vexed  to 
death,  by  such  a  stupid,  selfish  creature  as  Agnes.  It  was  too 
much  for  human  nature  to  endure.  Agnes  bore  it  all  in 
silence,  for  she  ate  the  bread  of  dependence,  and  dared  not 
express  the  bitter  feelings  that  rose  to  her  lips.  But  she  no 
longer  said  in  her  heart  "happy,  beautiful  Ellen;"  she 
wished  her  admirers  could  see  her  as  she  then  did,  and  be  dis 
enchanted. 

"Take  off  this  horrid  dress,"  cried  Ellen,  pulling  the  roses 
from  her  hair,  now  uncurled  by  the  damp,  and  hanging  in 
long  straight  tresses  over  her  face.  What  a  contrast  did  she 
now  present  to  the  brilliant  figure  which  had  left  the  chamber 
a  few  hours  before  !  Her  cheeks  were  pale,  her  eyes  heavy, 
her  limbs  relaxed,  her  buoyant  spirits  gone.  The  terrible  mis 
fortune  of  not  having  reigned  an  unrivalled  belle,  completely 
overwhelmed  her !  He,  whose  admiration  she  most  prized, 
had  devoted  himself  to  another,  and  she  hated  the  fair,  un 
conscious  stranger,  who  had  attracted  him  from  his  allegiance 
The  costly  dress  which  the  mantuamaker  had  sat  up  all  night 
to  complete,  was  thrown  aside  as  a  worthless  rag ;  her  flowers 
were  scattered  on  the  floor;  every  article  of  her  dress  bore  wit 
ness  to  her  ill-humour. 

"I  cannot  get  warm,"  said  she;  "I  believe  I  have  caught 
my  death-cold;"  and  throwing  her  still  shivering  limbs  on  the 
bed,  she  told  Agnes  to  bury  her  in  blankets,  and  then  let  her 
leep.  Can  we  suppose  that  guardian  angels  hovered  over  the 
couch,  and  watched  the  slumbers  of  this  youthful  beauty  ? 
•There  was  no  hallowed  spot  in  her  chamber,  where  she  was 
accustomed  to  kneel  in  penitence,  gratitude,  and  adoration, 
before  the  King  of  Kings  and  Lord  of  Lords.  Perhaps,  when 
a  mere  child,  she  had  been  taught  to  repeat  the  Lord's  Prayer 
at  her  nurse's  knee,  but  never  had  her  heart  ascended  unto 
Him,  who  created  her  for  his  glory,  and  breathed  into  hei 


THREE   SCENES   IN   THE   LIFE  OF   A  BELLE.  139 

frame  a  portion  of  his  own  immortal  Spirit.  She  had  been 
educated  solely  for  the  circles  of  fashion,  to  glitter  and  be 
admired — to  dance,  to  sing,  to  dress,  to  talk,  and  that  was  all. 
She  knew  that  she  must  one  day  die,  and  when  the  bell  tolled, 
and  the  long  funeral  darkened  the  way,  she  was  reluctantly 
reminded  of  her  own  mortality.  But  she  banished  the  dreadful 
and  mysterious  thought,  as  one  with  which  youth,  beauty,  and 
health  had  nothing  to  do,  and  as  suited  only  to  the  infirmities 
of  age,  and  the  agonies  of  disease.  As  for  the  judgment  be 
yond  the  grave,  that  scene  of  indescribable  grandeur,  when 
every  created  being  must  stand  before  the  presence  of  un 
created  glory,  "  to  give  an  account  of  the  deeds  done  in  the 
body,"  she  deemed  it  shocking  and  sacrilegious  to  think  of  a 
subject  so  awful;  and,  to  do  her  justice,  she  never  heard  it 
mentioned  except  from  the  pulpit  (for  there  are  fashionable 
churches,  and  Ellen  was  the  belle  of  the  church  as  well  as  of 
the  ball-room).  Thus  living  in  practical  atheism,  labouring  to 
bring  every  thought  and  feeling  in  subjection  to  the  bondage 
of  fashion,  endeavouring  to  annihilate  the  great  principle  of 
immortality  struggling  within  her,  Ellen  Loring  was  as  much 
the  slave  of  vice  as  the  votary  of  pleasure.  Like  the  king  of 
Babylon,  who  took  the  golden  vessels  from  the  temple  of  the 
Lord,  and  desecrated  them  at  his  unhallowed  banquet,  she  had 
robbed  her  soul,  that  temple  of  the  living  God,  of  its  sacred 
treasures,  and  appropriated  them  to  the  revelries  of  life.  But 
the  hour  was  approaching,  when  the  invisible  angel  of  con- 
Bcience  was  to  write  on  the  walls  of  memory  those  mystic 
characters  which  a  greater  than  Daniel  alone  can  interpret. 


It  was  the  afternoon  of  a  mild  summer's  day,  a  lovely, 
smiling,  joyous  summer  day ?<  when  two  female  figures  were 
seen  slowly  walking  along  a  shaded  path,  that  led  from  a  neat 
white  cottage  towards  a  neighbouring  grove.  One  was  beau- 
tiful,  and  both  were  young,  but  the  beautiful  one  was  so  pale 
and  languid,  so  fragile  and  fading,  it  was  impossible  to  behold 
her  without  the  deepest  commiseration.  She  moved  listlessly  on, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  less  fair,  but  healthier  companion, 
apparently  insensible  of  the  sweet  and  glowing  scenery  around 
her.  The  birds  sung  in  melodious  concert,  from  every  green 
bough,  but  their  music  could  not  gladden  her  ear;  the  air 
played  softly  through  her  heavy  locks,  but  awaked  no  elastic 
spring  iu  her  once  bounding  spirits.  It  was  the  late  blooming 


140  THREE   SCENES   IN   THE   LIFE   OP   A  BELLE. 

Ellen  Loring,  who,  according  to  the  advice  of  her  physician, 
was  inhaling  the  country  air,  to  see  if  it  could  not  impart  an 
invigorating  influence.  She  had  never  recovered  from  the 
deadly  chill  occasioned  by  her  exposure,  the  night  of  the  ball, 
when  she  stood  with  her  thin  slippers  and  uncovered  neck  in 
the  snow  and  the  blast,  in  all  the  "madness  of  superfluous 
health."  It  was  said  she  had  caught  a  "  dreadful  cold,"  which 
the  warm  season  would  undoubtedly  relieve,  and  when  the 
summer  came,  and  her  cough  continued  with  unabated  violence, 
and  her  flesh  and  her  strength  wasted,  she  was  sent  into  the 
country,  assured  that  a  change  of  air  and  daily  exemse  would 
infallibly  restore  her.  The  fearful  word  consumption,  which 
in  the  days  of  Ellen's  health  was  so  often  on  the  mother's 
lips,  was  never  mentioned  now;  and  whenever  friends  iuquired 
after  Ellen,  she  always  told  them,  "she  had  caught  a  bad 
cold,  which  hung  on  a  long  time,  but  that  she  was  so  young, 
and  had  so  fine  a  constitution,  she  did  not  apprehend  any 
danger."  Ellen  was  very  unwilling  to  follow  the  prescriptions 
of  her  medical  friend.  She  left  the  city  with  great  reluctance, 
dreading  the  loneliness  of  a  country  life.  Agnes  accompanied 
her,  on  whom  was  imposed  the  difficult  task  of  amusing  and 
cheering  the  invalid,  and  of  beguiling  her  of  every  sense  of 
her  danger.  "  Be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Loring,  when  she  gave 
her  parting  injunctions  to  Agnes,  "  that  you  do  not  suffer  her 
to  be  alone :  there  is  nothing  so  disadvantageous  to  a  sick  per 
son  as  to  brood  over  their  own  thoughts.  It  always  occasions 
low  spirits.  I  have  put  up  a  large  supply  of  novels,  and  when 
she  is  tired  of  reading  herself,  you  must  read  to  her,  or  sing 
to  her,  or  amuse  her  in  every  possible  manner.  If  she  should 
be  very  ill,  you  must  send  for  me  immediately,  but  I  have  no 
doubt  that  in  a  few  weeks  she  will  be  as  well  as  ever." 

Poor  Agnes  sometimes  was  tempted  to  sink  under  the  weary 
burden  of  her  cares.  She  wondered  she  had  ever  thought  it 
a  task  to  array  her  for  the  ball-room,  or  to  wait  her  return  at 
the  midnight-hour.  But  she  no  longer  envied  her,  for  Ellen 
pale  and  faded,  and  dejected,  was  a  very  different  object  from 
Ellen  triumphant  in  beauty  and  bloom.  The  kind  lady  with 
whom  they  boarded,  had  had  a  rustic  seat  constructed  under 
the  trees,  in  the  above-mentioned  grove,  for  the  accommodation 
of  the  invalid.  As  they  now  approached  it,  they  found  it 
already  occupied  by  a  gentleman,  who  was  so  intently  reading 
he  did  not  seem  aware  of  their  vicinity.  They  were  about  to 
retire;  when  lifting  his  eyes,  he  rose,  and  with  a  benignant 


THREE   SCENES   IN   THE   LIFE   OF   A  BELLE.  141 

countenance,  requested  them  to  be  seated.  Ellen  was  exhausted 
from  the  exercise  of  her  walk;  and,  as  the  stranger  was  past  the 
meridian  of  life,  she  did  not  hesitate  to  accept  his  offer,  at  the 
same  time  thanking  him  for  his  courtesy.  His  mild,  yet 
serious  eyes,  rested  on  her  face,  with  a  look  of  extreme  com 
miseration,  as  with  a  deep  sigh  of  fatigue  she  leaned  on  the 
shoulder  of  Agnes,  while  the  hectic  flush  flitting  over  he: 
cheek,  betrayed  the  feverish  current  that  was  flowing  in  her 
veins. 

"  You  seem  an  invalid,  my  dear  young  lady,"  said  he,  so 
kindly  and  respectfully,  it  was  impossible  to  be  offended  with 
the  freedom  of  the  address ;  "  I  trust  you  find  there  is  a  balm 
in  Gilead,  a  heavenly  Physician  near." 

Ellen  gave  him  a  glance  of  unspeakable  astonishment, 
and  coldly  answered,  "  I  have  a  severe  cold,  sir — nothing 
more." 

The  dry,  continuous  cough  that  succeeded,  was  a  fearful 
commentary  upon  her  words.  The  stranger  seemed  one  not 
easily  repulsed,  and  one,  too,  who  had  conceived  a  sudden  and 
irrepressible  interest  in  his  young  companions.  Agnes,  in 
arranging  Ellen's  scarf,  dropped  a  book  from  her  hand,  which 
he  stooped  to  raise,  and  as  his  eye  glanced  on  the  title,  the 
gravity  of  his  countenance  deepened.  It  was  one  of  *****  *'g 
last  works,  in  which  that  master  of  glowing  language  and  im 
passioned  images,  has  thrown  his  most  powerful  spell  around 
the  senses  of  the  reader,  and  dazzled  and  bewildered  his  percep 
tions  of  right  and  wrong. 

"  Suffer  me  to  ask  you,  young  lady,"  said  he,  laying  down 
the  book,  with  a  sigh,  "  if  you  find  in  these  pages  instruction, 
consolation,  or  support  ?  anything  that  as  a  rational  being  you 
ought  to  seek,  as  a  moral  one  to  approve,  as  an  immortal  one 
to  desire  ?" 

Ellen  was  roused  to  a  portion  of  her  former  animation,  by 
this  attack  upon  her  favourite  author ;  and,  in  language  warm 
as  his  from  whom  she  drew  her  inspiration,  she  defended  hia 
sentiments  and  exalted  his  genius — she  spoke  of  his  godlike 
mind,  when  the  stranger  entreated  her  to  forbear,  in  words  of 
supplication,  but  in  accents  of  command. 

"  Draw  not  a  similitude,"  said  he,  "between  a  holy  God, 
and  a  being  who  has  perverted  the  noblest  powers  that  God 
has  given.  Bear  with  me  a  little  while,  and  I  will  show  you 
what  is  truly  godlike,  a  book  as  far  transcending  the  produc 


142  THREE   SCENES   IN   THE   LIFE   OF  A  BELLE. 

fcions  of  him  you  so  much  admire,  as  the  rays  of  the  sun  excel 
in  glory  the  wan  light  of  a  taper." 

Then,  taking  from  his  bosom  the  volume  which  had  excited 
the  curiosity  of  Ellen,  on  account  of  its  apparent  fascination, 
and  seating  himself  by  her  side,  he  unfolded  its  sacred  pages. 
She  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  golden  letters  on  the  binding, 
and  drew  back  with  a  feeling  of  superstitious  dread.  It  seemed 
to  her,  that  he  was  about  to  read  her  death-warrant,  and  she 
involuntarily  put  out  her  hand,  with  a  repulsive  motion.  With 
out  appearing  to  regard  it,  he  looked  upon  her  with  sweet 
and  solemn  countenance,  while  he  repeated  this  passage,  from 
a  bard  who  had  drank  of  the  waters  of  a  holier  fountain  than 
Grecian  poets  ever  knew  : 

"  This  book,  this  holy  book,  on  every  line 
Marked  with  the  seal  of  high  divinity, 
On  every  leaf  bedewed  with  drops  of  love 
Divine,  and  with  the  eternal  heraldry 
And  signature  of  God  Almighty  stamped 
From  first  to  last ;  this  ray  of  sacred  light, 
This  lamp,  from  off  the  everlasting  throne, 
Mercy  took  down,  and  in  the  night  of  time, 
Stood,  casting  on  the  dark  her  gracious  bow  ; 
And  evermore,  beseeching  men,  with  tears 
And  earnest  sighs,  to  read,  believe,  and  live." 

Ellen  listened  with  indescribable  awe.  There  was  a  power 
and  sensibility  in  his  accent,  a  depth  of  expression  in  his  occa 
sional  upturned  glance,  that  impressed  and  affected  her  as  she 
had  never  been  before. 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  he,  "  if,  as  a  stranger,  I  seem  intrusive  ; 
but  I  look  upon  every  son  and  daughter  of  Adarn,  with  the 
tenderness  of  a  brother,  and  upon  whom  the  Almighty  has 
laid  his  chastening  hand,  with  feelings  of  peculiar  interest.  If 
1  were  wandering  through  a  barren  wilderness,  and  found  a 
fountain  of  living  water,  and  suffered  my  fellow-pilgrim  to 
slake  his  thirst  at  the  noisome  pool  by  the  wayside,  without 
calling  him  to  drink  of  the  pure  stream,  would  he  not  have 
reason  to  upbraid  me  for  my  selfishness  ?  Oh !  doubly  selfish 
then  should  I  be,  if,  after  tasting  the  waters  of  everlasting 
life,  for  ever  flowing  from  this  blessed  Book,  I  should  not  seek 
to  draw  you  from  the  polluted  sources  in  which  you  vainly 
endeavour  to  quench  the  thirst  of  an  immortal  spirit.  Dear 
young  fellow-traveller  to*  eternity,  suffer  me  to  lend  you  a 
guiding  hand." 


THREE   SCENES  IN   THE  LIFE   OP  A  BELLE.  143 

Ellen  Loring,  who  had  been  famed  in  the  circles  of  fashion 
for  her  ready  wit  and  brilliant  repartee,  found  no  words  in 
which  to  reply  to  this  affectionate  and  solemn  appeal.  She 
turned  aside  her  head,  to  hide  the  tears  which  she  could  no 
longer  repress  from  flowing  down  her  cheeks.  As  the  polished, 
but  darkened  Athenians,  when  Paul,  standing  on  Mars  Hill, 
explained  to  them  "  that  unknown  God,  whom  they  ignorantly 
worshipped,"  trembled  before  an  eloquence  they  could  not 
comprehend,  she  was  oppressed  by  a  power  she  could  not 
define.  Agnes,  who  began  to  be  alarmed  at  the  consequences 
of  this  agitation,  and  who  saw  in  perspective  Mrs.  Loring's 
displeasure  and  reproaches,  here  whispered  Ellen  it  was  time 
to  return,  and  Ellen,  glad  to  be  released  from  an  influence  to 
«  which  she  was  constrained  to  bow,  obeyed  the  signal.  Their 
new  friend  rose  also ;  "  I  cannot  but  believe,"  said  he,  "  that 
this  meeting  is  providential.  It  seems  to  me  that  heaven 
directed  my  steps  hither,  that  I  might  lead  you  to  those  green 
pastures  and  still  waters  where  the  Shepherd  of  Israel  gathers 
his  flock.  You  are  both  young,  but  there  is  one  of  you  whose 
cheek  is  pale,  and  whose  saddened  glance  tells  a  touching 
history  of  the  vanity  of  all  earthly  things.  Take  this  blessed 
volume,  and  substitute  it  for  the  one  you  now  hold,  and  believe 
me  you  will  find  in  it  an  inexhaustible  supply  of  entertainment 
and  delight,  a  perennial  spring  of  light,  and  love,  and  joy.  You 
will  find  it  an  unerring  guide  in  life,  and  a  torch  to  illumine 
the  dark  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.  Farewell — the  bless 
ing  of  Israel's  Grod  be  yours  !" 

He  placed  the  book  in  the  hand  of  Agnes,  and  turned  in  a 
different  path.  They  walked  home  in  silence.  Neither  ex 
pressed  to  the  other  the  thoughts  that  filled  the  bosom  of  each. 
Had  an  angel  from  heaven  come  down  and  met  them  in  the 
grove,  the  interview  could  hardly  have  had  a  more  solemnizing 
influence.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had  ever  been  individually 
addressed  as  immortal  beings,  the  first  time  they  had  been 
personally  reminded  that  they  were  pilgrims  of  earth,  and 
doomed  to  be  dwellers  of  the  tomb.  The  voice  of  the  stranger 
still  rung  in  their  ears,  deep  and  mellow  as  the  sound  of 
the  church-going  bell.  Those  warning  accents,  they  could  not 
forget  them,  for  there  was  an  echo  in  their  own  hearts,  and  an 
answer  too,  affirming  the  truth  of  what  he  uttered.  That  night, 
•when  Ellen,  unusually  exhausted,  reclined  on  her  restless 
couch,  she  suddenly  asked  Agnes  to  read  her  something  from 
that  book,  so  mysteriously  given.  It  was  the  first  time  she 


144  THREE   SCENES   IN   THE   LIFE   OF  A   BELLE. 

had  addressed  her,  since  their  return,  and  there  was  something 
startling  in  the  sound  of  her  voice,  it  was  so  altered.  There 
was  humility  in  the  tone,  that  usually  breathed  pride  or  discon 
tent.  Agnes  sat  down,  and  turned  the  leaves  with  a  trembling 
hand. 

"  What  shall  I  read  ?  where  shall  I  commence  ?"  asked  she, 
fearful  and  irresolute,  in  utter  ignorance  of  its  hallowed  con 
tents. 

"  Alas  !  I  know  not,"  replied  Ellen,  then  raising  herself  on 
her  elbow,  with  a  wild  and  earnest  look,  "  see  if  you  can  find 
where  it  speaks  of  that  dark  valley,  of  which  he  told — the  dark 
valley  of  death." 

By  one  of  those  unexpected  coincidences  which  sometimes 
occur,  Agnes  at  that  moment  opened  at  the  twenty-third  Psalm,  < 
and  the  verse  containing  this  sublime  allusion  met  her  eye. 
She  read  aloud — "  Though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil,  for  thou  art  with  me — 
thy  rod  and  thy  staff,  they  comfort  me." 

"  Strange,"  repeated  Ellen,  and  making  a  motion  for  her  to 
continue,  Agnes  read  the  remainder  of  that  beautiful  Psalm, 
and  the  two  succeeding  ones,  before  she  paused.  Dark  as  was 
their  understanding  with  regard  to  spiritual  things,  and  deep 
as  was  their  ignorance,  they  were  yet  capable  of  taking  in 
gome  faint  glimpses  of  the  glory  of  the  Lord,  pervading  these 
strains  of  inspiration.  Agnes  was  a  pleasing  reader,  and  her 
voice,  now  modulated  by  new  emotions,  was  peculiarly  impress 
ive.  Ellen  repeated  again  and  again  to  herself,  after  Agnes 
had  ceased,  "  Who  is  this  King  of  glory  ?  The  Lord  strong 
and  mighty  ?"  She  had  never  thought  of  God,  but  as  of  a 
Being  dreadful  in  power,  avenging  in  his  judgments,  and  awful 
in  his  mystery.  She  had  remembered  him  only  in  the  whirl 
wind  and  the  storm,  the  lightning  and  the  thunder,  never  in 
the  still  small  voice.  She  had  thought  of  de'ath,  but  it  was  of  the 
winding  sheet  and  the  dark  coffin  lid,  and  the  lonely  grave — 
her  fears  had  rested  there,  on  the  shuddering  brink  of  decay 
ing  mortality.  Oh  !  as  she  lay  awake  during  the  long  watches 
of  that  night,  and  conscience,  aroused  from  its  deadly  lethargy, 
entered  the  silent  chambers  of  memory  and  waked  the  slum 
bering  shadows  of  the  past — how  cheerless,  how  dark  was  the 
retrospect !  Far  as  the  eye  of  memory  could  revert,  she  could 
read  nothing  but  vanity,  vanity !  A  wide,  wide  blank,  on 
which  a  spectral  hand  was  writing  vanity,  and  something  told 
her,  too,  that  that  same  hand  would  ere  long  write  this  great 


THREE   SCENES   IN   THE   LIFE   OP  A  BELLE.  145 

moral  of  life  on  her  mouldering  ashes.  She  cast  her  fearful  gaze 
upon  the  future,  but  recoiled  in  shivering  dread,  from  the  vast 
illimitable  abyss  that  darkened  before  her.  No  ray  of  hope 
illumined  the  dread  immense.  The  Star  of  Bethlehem  had 
never  yet  shed  its  holy  beams  on  the  horoscope  of  her  destiny  j 
not  that  its  beams  had  ever  ceased  to  shine,  since  that  me 
morable  night  when,  following  its  silvery  pathway  in  the 
heavens,  the  wise  men  of  the  East  were  guMed  to  the  cradle 
of  the  infant  Redeemer,  to  offer  their  adoration  at  his  feet ; 
but  her  eyes  had  never  looked  beyond  the  clouds  of  time,  and 
in  its  high  and  pure  resplendence  it  had  shone  in  vain  for 
her. 

"  I  will  seek  him  to-morrow,  this  holy  man,"  said  she,  as 
hour  after  hour  she  lay  gazing,  through  her  curtains,  on  the 
starry  depths  of  night,  "  and  ask  him  to  enlighten  and  direct 
me." 

The  morrow  came,  but  Ellen  was  not  able  to  take  her  ac 
customed  work.  For  several  days  she  was  confined  from  de 
bility  to  her  own  room,  and  had  ample  leisure  to  continue  the 
great  walk  of  self-examination.  As  soon  as  she  was  permitted 
to  go  into  the  open  air,  she  sought  her  wonted  retreat,  and  it 
was  with  feelings  of  mingled  joy  and  dread,  she  recognised 
the  stranger,  apparently  waiting  their  approach.  This  truly 
good  man,  though  a  stranger  to  them,  was  well  known  in  the 
neighbourhood  for  his  deeds  of  charity  and  labours  of  love. 
His  name  was  M  *  *  *  *,  and  as  there  was  no  mystery  in  his 
character  or  life,  he  may  be  here  introduced  to  the  reader, 
that  the  appellation  of  stranger  may  no  longer  be  necessary. 
He  greeted  them  both  with  even  more  than  his  former  kind 
ness,  and  noticed  with  pain  the  increased  debility  of  Ellen. 
He  saw,  too,  from  her  restless  glance,  that  her  soul  was  dis 
quieted  within  her. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  Ellen,  mournfully,  "you  promised  me  joy, 
and  you  have  given  me  wretchedness." 

"  My  daughter,"  replied  Mr.  M  *  *  *  *,  "before  the  sick 
found  healing  virtue  in  the  waters  at  Bethesda,  an  angel  came 
down  and  troubled  the  stillness  of  the  pool." 

Then,  at  her  own  request,  he  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  en 
deavoured  to  explain  to  her  the  grand  yet  simple  truths  of 
Christianity.  And  beginning  with  the  law  and  the  prophets, 
he  carried  her  with  him  to  the  mount  that  burned  with  fire 
and  thick  smoke,  where  the  Almighty,  descending  in  shrouded 
majesty,  proclaimed  his  will  to  a  trembling  world,  in  thunder 


146  THREE   SCENES   IN   THE  LIFE   OF  A  BELLE. 

and  lightning  and  flame;  he  led  her  on  with  him,  through 
the  wilderness,  pointing  out  the  smitten  rock,  the  descending 
manna,  the  brazen  serpent,  and  all  the  miraculous  manifesta 
tions  of  God's  love  to  his  chosen  people ;  then,  taking  up  the 
lofty  strains  of  prophecy,  from  the  melodious  harp  of  David  to 
the  sublimer  lyre  of  Isaiah,  he  shadowed  forth  the  promised 
Messiah.  In  more  persuasive  accents  he  dwelt  on  the  fulfil 
ment  of  those  wondrous  prophecies.  Gently,  solemnly  he 
guided  her  on,  from  the  manger  to  the  cross,  unfolding  as  he 
went  the  glorious  mysteries  of  redemption,  the  depth,  the 
grandeur,  the  extent,  and  the  exaltation  of  a  Saviour's  love. 
Ellen  listened  and  wept.  She  felt  as  if  she  could  have  listened 
for  ever.  At  one  moment  she  was  oppressed  by  the  greatness 
of  the  theme,  at  another  melted  by  its  tenderness.  Those  who 
from  infancy  have  been  accustomed  to  hear  these  divine  truths 
explained,  who  from  tLeir  earliest  years  have  surrounded  the 
household  altar,  and  daily  read  God's  holy  word,  can  have  no 
conception  of  the  overpowering  emotions  of  Ellen  and  Agnes ; 
neither  can  they,  whose  infant  glances  have  taken  in  the 
visible  glories  of  creation,  comprehend  the  rapture  and  amaze 
ment  of  those  who,  being  born  blind,  are  made  in  after  years 
to  see. 

From  this  hour  Ellen  and  Agnes  became  the  willing  pupils 
of  Mr.  M  *  *  *  *,  in  the  most  interesting  study  in  the  uni 
verse  ;  but  it  is  with  Ellen  the  reader  is  supposed  most  strongly 
to  sympathize ;  the  feelings  of  Agnes  may  be  inferred  from 
her  going  hand  in  hand  with  her  invalid  friend.  Ellen  lin 
gered  in  the  country  till  the  golden  leaves  of  autumn  began 
to  strew  the  ground,  and  its  chill  gales  to  sigh  through  the 
grove.  What  progress  she  made  during  this  time  in  the 
lore  of  heaven,  under  the  teachings  and  prayers  of  her  be 
loved  instructor,  may  be  gathered  from  another,  and  the  last 
scene,  through  which  this  once  glittering  belle  was  destined  to 
pass. 


The  chamber  in  which  Ellen  Loring  was  first  presented  to 
the  reader,  surrounded  by  the  paraphernalia  of  the  ball-room, 
was  once  more  lighted — but  what  a  change  now  met  the  eye  ! 
She,  who  then  sat  before  the  mirror  to  be  arrayed  in  the 
adornments  of  fashion,  whose  vain  eye  gazed  with  unrepressed 
admiration  on  her  own  loveliness,  and  who  laughed  to  scorn 
the  apprehensions  of  her  fatally  indulgent  mother,  now  lay 


THREE   SCENES   IN   THE  LIFE   OF   A  BELLE.  147 

pale  and  emaciated  on  her  couch.  No  roses  now  bloomed  iu 
her  damp,  unbraided  locks,  no  decorating  pearl  surrounded 
her  wan  neck,  no  sparkling  ray  of  anticipated  triumph  flashed 
from  her  sunken  eye.  Pride,  vanity,  vainglory,  strength, 
beauty — all  were  fled. 

Come  hither,  ye  daughters  of  pleasure,  ye  who  live  alone 
for  the  fleeting  joys  of  sense,  who  give  to  the  world  the  homage 
that  God  requires,  and  waste  in  the  pursuits  of  time  the  ener 
gies  given  for  eternity,  and  look  upon  a  scene  through  which 
you  must  one  day  pass  !  There  is  more  eloquence  in  one  dying 
bed,  than  Grecian  or  Roman  orator  ever  uttered. 

The  dim  eyes  of  Ellen  turned  towards  the  door,  with  a  wist 
ful  glance.  "  I  fear  it  will  be  too  late,"  said  she ;  "  mother, 
if  he  should  not  come  before  I  die — " 

"  Die  I"  almost  shrieked  Mrs.  Loring;  "  you  are  not  going  to 
die,  Ellen.  Do  not  talk  so  frightfully.  You  will  be  better 
soon — Agnes,  bathe  her  temples.  She  is  only  faint." 

"No,  mother,"  answered  Ellen,  and  her  voice  was  sur 
prisingly  clear  in  its  tones,  "  I  feel  the  truth  of  what  I  utter, 
here,"  laying  her  wasted  hand  on  her  breast,  as  she  spoke. 
"  I  did  hope  that  I  might  live  to  hear  once  more  the  voice  of 
him  who  taught  me  the  way  of  salvation,  and  revealed  to  my 
benighted  mind  the  God  who  created,  the  Saviour  who  redeem 
ed  me,  that  I  might  breathe  out  to  him  my  parting  blessing, 
and  hear  his  hallowed  prayer  rise  over  my  dying  bed.  But 
oh,  my  dear  mother,  it  is  for  your  sake,  more  than  mine,  I 
yearn  for  his  presence — I  looked  to  him  to  comfort  you,  when 
I  am  gone."  Mrs.  Loring  here  burst  into  a  violent  paroxysm, 
of  tears,  and  wrung  her  hands  in  uncontrollable  agony. 

"  Oh  !  I  cannot  give  thee  up,"  she  again  and  again  repeated, 
"  my  beautiful  Ellen,  my  good,  my  beautiful  child  !" 

Mournfully,  painfully  did  these  exclamations  fall  on  the 
chastened  ears  of  the  dying  Ellen. 

"  Recall  not  the  image  of  departed  beauty,  oh  my  mother ! 
I  made  it  my  idol,  and  my  heavenly  Father,  in  infinite 
mercy,  consumed  it  with  the  breath  of  his  mouth.  Speak 
not  of  goodness — my  life  has  been  one  long  act  of  sin  and  in- 
gratitude.  I  can  look  back  upon  nothing  but  wasted  mercies, 
neglected  opportunities,  and  perverted  talents.  But  blessed 
be  God,  since  I  have  been  led  in  penitence  and  faith  to  the 
feet  of  a  crucified  Saviour,  I  dare  to  believe  that  my  sins  are 
forgiven,  aud  that  my  trembling  spirit  will  soon  find  rest  in 


148  THREE   SCENES   IN   THE   LIFE   OP  A  BELLE. 

the  bosom  of  Him,  who  lived  to  instruct  and  died  to  redeem 
me." 

Ellen  paused,  for  difficult  breathing  had  often  impeded  her 
utterance ;  but  her  prayerful  eyes,  raised  to  heaven,  told  the 
intercourse  her  soul  was  holding  with  One  "  whom  not  having 
seen  she  loved,  but  in  whom  believing,  she  rejoiced  with  joy 
inspeakable  and  full  of  glory."  At  this  moment,  the  door 
oftly  opened,  and  the  gentle  footsteps  of  him,  whom  on  earth 
he  most  longed  to  behold,  entered  the  chamber.  As  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  that  benign,  that  venerated  countenance, 
she  felt  a  glow  of  happiness  pervading  her  being,  of  which  she 
thought  her  waning  life  almost  incapable.  She  clasped  her 
feeble  hands  together,  and  exclaimed,  "  Oh  !  Mr.  M  *  *  *  *." 
It  was  all  she  could  utter,  for  tears,  whose  fountains  she  had 
thought  dried  for  ever,  gushed  into  her  eyes  and  rolled  down 
her  pallid  cheeks.  Mr.  M  *  *  *  *  took  one  of  her  cold  hands 
in  his,  and  looked  upon  her,  for  a  time,  without  speaking. 

"  My  daughter,"  at  length  he  said,  and  he  did  not  speak 
without  much  emotion,  "  do  you  find  the  hand  of  God  laid 
heavy  upon  your  soul,  or  is  it  gentle,  even  as  a  father's 
hand  ?" 

"  Gentle,  most  gentle,"  she  answered.  "  Oh  !  blessed,  for 
ever  blessed  be  the  hour  that  sent  you,  heaven-directed,  to 
guide  the  wanderer  in  the  paths  of  peace !  Had  it  not  been 
for  you,  I  should  now  be  trembling  on  the  verge  of  a  dark 
eternity,  without  one  ray  to  illumine  the  unfathomable  abyss. 
Pray  for  me  once  more,  my  beloved  friend,  and  pray  too  for 
my  dear  mother,  that  she  may  be  enabled  to  seek  Him  in 
faith,  who  can  make  a  dying  bed  '  feel  soft  as  downy  pillows 
are.' " 

Ellen  clasped  her  feeble  hands  together,  while  Mr.  M  *  *  *  *, 
kneeling  by  her  bed-side,  in  that  low,  sweet  solemn  tone,  for 
which  he  was  so  remarkable,  breathed  forth  one  of  those  deep 
and  fervent  prayers,  which  are,  as  it  were,  wings  to  the  soul, 
and  bear  it  up  to  heaven.  Mrs.  Loring  knelt  too,  by  the 
weeping  Agnes,  but  her  spirit,  unused  to  devotion,  lingered 
below,  and  her  eyes  wandered  from  the  heavenly  countenance 
of  that  man  of  G-od,  to  the  death-like  face  of  that  child,  whose 
beauty  had  once  been  her  pride.  She  remembered  how  short 
a  time  since,  she  had  seen  that  form  float  in  airy  grace  before 
the  mirror  clothed  in  fair  and  flowing  robes,  and  how  soon  she 
should  see  it  extended  in  the  awful  immobility  of  death, 
wrapped  in  the  still  winding-sheet,  that  garment  whose  folds 


THREE   SCENES   IN   THE   LIFE  OF  A   BELLE.  149 

are  never  more  waved  by  the  breath  of  life.  Then,  conscience 
whispered  in  her  shuddering  ear,  that,  bad  she  acted  a  mother'? 
part,  and  disciplined  her  daughter  to  prudence  and  obedience, 
the  blasts  of  death  had  not  thus  blighted  her  in  her  early 
blooin.  And  it  whispered  also,  that  she  had  no  comfort  to 
offer  her  dying  child,  in  this  last  conflict  of  dissolving  nature. 
It  was  for  this  world  she  had  lived  herself,  it  was  for  this 
world  she  had  taught  her  to  live,  but  for  that  untravelled 
world  beyond,  she  had  no  guiding  hand  to  extend.  It  was  to 
a  stranger's  face  the  fading  eyes  of  Ellen  were  directed.  It 
was  a  stranger's  prayers  that  hallowed  her  passage  to  the  tomb. 
The  realities  of  eternity  for  the  first  time  pressed  home,  on 
that  vain  mother's  heart.  She  felt,  too,  that  she  must  one  day 
die,  and  that  earth  with  all  its  riches  and  pleasures  could  yield 
her  no  support  in  that  awful  moment.  That  there  was  some 
thing  which  earth  could  not  impart,  which  had  power  to  soothe 
and  animate  the  departing  spirit,  she  knew  by  the  angelic  ex 
pression  of  Ellen's  upturned  eyes,  and  by  the  look  of  unutter 
able  serenity  that  was  diffused  over  her  whole  countenance. 
The  voice  of  Mr.  M  *  *  *  *  died  away  on  her  ear,  and  an  un 
broken  silence  reigned  through  the  apartment.  Her  stormy 
grief  had  been  stilled  into  calmness,  during  that  holy  prayer. 
The  eyes  of  Ellen  were  now  gently  closed,  and  as  they  rose 
from  their  knees  they  sat  down  by  her  side,  fearing,  even  by  a 
deep-drawn  breath,  to  disturb  her  slumbers.  A  faint  hope 
began  to  dawn  in  the  mother's  heart,  from  the  placidity  and 
duration  of  her  slumbers. 

"  I  have  never  known  her  sleep  so  calm  before,"  said  she, 
in  a  low  voice,  to  Mr.  M  *  *  *  *.  Mr.  M  *  *  *  *  bent  forward 
and  laid  his  hand  softly  on  her  marble  brow. 

"Calm  indeed  are  her  slumbers,"  said  he,  looking  solemnly 
upward ;  "  she  sleeps  now,  I  trust,  in  the  bosom  of  her  Saviour 
and  her  God." 

Thus  died  Ellen  Loring — just  one  year  from  that  night 
when  Agnes  followed  her  retreating  figure,  with  such  a  wistful 
gaze,  as  she  left  her  for  the  ball-room,  exclaiming  to  herself, 
"  Happy,  beautiful  Ellen  !"  and  Agnes  now  said  within  herself, 
even  while  she  wept  over  her  clay-cold  form,  "  Happy  Ellen  !" 
but  with  far  different  emotions ;  for  she  now  followed,  with 
the  eye  of  faith,  her  ascending  spirit  to  the  regions  of  the 
blest,  and  saw  her,  in  imagination,  enter  those  golden  gates, 
which  never  will  be  closed  against  the  humble  and  penitent 
believer. 


150  THREE   SCENES   IN   THE   LIFE   OF  A  BELLE. 

A  few  evenings  after,  a  brilliant  party  was  assembled  in  one 
of  those  halls,  where  pleasure  welcomes  its  votaries. — "  Did 
you  know  that  Ellen  Loring  was  dead  ?"  observed  some  one 
to  a  beautiful  girl,  the  very  counterpart  of  what  Ellen  once 
was.  "Dead  !"  exclaimed  the  startled  beauty,  for  one  moment 
alarmed  into  reflection ;  "  I  did  not  think  she  would  have 
lied  so  soon.  I  am  sorry  you  told  me — it  will  throw  a  damp 
over  my  spirits  the  whole  evening — poor  Ellen  !"  It  was 
but  a  moment,  and  the  music  breathed  forth  its  joyous  strains. 
She  was  led  in  haste  to  the  dance,  and  Ellen  Loring  was 
forgotten. 


THE  FATAL  COSMETIC. 


CHARLES  BROWN  sat  with  Mr.  Hall  in  a  corner  of  the 
room,  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  company.  Mr.  Hall  was  a 
stranger,  Charles  the  familiar  acquaintance  of  all  present.  The 
former  evidently  retained  his  seat  out  of  politeness  to  the  latter 
for  his  eyes  wandered  continually  to  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  where  a  group  of  young  ladies  was  gathered  r  >und  a 
piano,  so  closely  as  to  conceal  the  musician  to  whom  +hey 
were  apparently  listening.  The  voice  that  accompanied 
instrument  was  weak  and  irregular,  and  the  high  tones  exces 
sively  shrill  and  disagreeable,  yet  the  performer  continued  her 
songs  with  unwearied  patience,  thinking  the  young  gentlemen 
were  turned  into  the  very  stones  that  Orpheus  changed  into 
breathing  things,  to  remain  insensible  to  her  minstrelsy. 
There  was  one  fair,  blue-eyed  girl,  with  a  very  sweet  counte 
nance,  who  stood  behind  her  chair  and  cast  many  a  mirthful 
glance  towards  Charles,  while  she  urged  the  songstress  to  con 
tinue  at  every  pause,  as  if  she  were  spell-bound  by  the  melody. 
Charles  laughed,  and  kept  time  with  his  foot,  but  Mr.  Hall  bit 
his  lips,  and  a  frown  passed  over  his  handsome  and  serious 
countenance.  "  What  a  wretched  state  of  society  !"  exclaimed 
he,  "  that  admits,  nay,  even  demands  such  insincerity.  Look 
at  the  ingenuous  countenance  of  that  young  girl — would  you 
not  expect  from  her  sincerity  and  truth  ?  Yet,  with  what 
practical  falsehood  she  encourages  her  companion  in  her  odioua 
screeching!" 

"  Take  care,"  answered  Charles,  "  you  must  not  be  too  severe. 
That  young  lady  is  a  very  particular  friend  of  mine,  and  a  very 
charming  girl.  She  has  remarkably  popular  manners,  and  if 
she  is  guilty  of  a  few  little  innocent  deceptions,  such,  for  in- 

(151) 


152  THE   FATAL  COSMETIC. 

stance,  as  the  present,  I  see  no  possible  harm  in  them  to  her- 
self,  and  they  certainly  give  great  pleasure  to  others.  She 
makes  Miss  Lewis  very  happy,  by  her  apparent  admiration, 
and  I  do  not  see  that  she  injures  any  one  else." 

Mr.  Hall  sighed. 

"  I  fear,"  said  he,  "  I  am  becoming  a  misanthropist.  I  find 
I  have  very  peculiar  views,  such  as  set  me  apart  and  isolate 
me  from  my  fellow  beings.  I  cannot  enjoy  an  artificial  state 
of  society.  I  consider  truth  as  the  corner  stone  of  the  great 
social  fabric,  and  where  this  is  wanting,  I  am  constantly  look 
ing  for  ruin  and  desolation.  The  person  deficient  in  this  virtue, 
however  fair  and  fascinating,  is  no  more  to  me  than  the  whited 
sepulchre  and  painted  wall." 

"  You  have,  indeed,  peculiar  views,"  answered  Charles, 
colouring  with  a  vexation  he  was  too  polite  to  expi'ess  in  any 
other  way ;  "  and  if  you  look  upon  the  necessary  dissimula 
tions  practised  in  society  as  falsehoods,  and  brand  them  as  such, 
I  can  only  say,  that  you  have  created  a  standard  of  morality 
more  exalted  and  pure  than  human  nature  can  ever  reach." 

"  I  cannot  claim  the  merit  of  creating  a  standard,  which 
the  divine  Moralist  gave  to  man,  when  he  marked  out  his 
duties  from  the  sacred  mount,  in  characters  so  clear  and  deep, 
that  the  very  blind  might  see  and  the  cold  ear  of  deafness 
hear." 

Mr.  Hall  spoke  with  warmth.  The  eyes  of  the  jompany 
were  directed  towards  him.  He  was  disconcerted  und  re 
mained  silent.  Miss  Lewis  rose  from  the  piano,  an</  drew  to 
wards  the  fire. 

"  I  am  getting  terribly  tired  of  the  piano,"  said  she,  "  I 
don't  think  it  suits  my  voice  at  all.  I  am  going  co  take  lessoua 
on  the  guitar  and  the  harp — one  has  so  much  more  scope  with 
them ;  and  then  they  are  much  more  graceful  instruments." 

"  You  are  perfectly  right,"  replied  Miss  Ellis,  the  young 
lady  with  the  ingenuous  countenance,  "  I  have  no  doubt  you 
would  excel  on  either,  and  your  singing  would  be  much  better 
appreciated.  Don't  you  think  so,  Margaret  ?"  added  she,  turn 
ing  to  a  young  lady,  who  had  hitherto  been  silent,  and  appa 
rently  unobserved. 

"  You  know  I  do  not,"  answered  she,  who  was  so  abruptly 
addressed,  in  a  perfectly  quiet  manner,  and  fixing  her  eyea 
serenely  on  her  face ;  "  I  should  be  sorry  to  induce  Miss  Lewi* 
to  do  anything  disadvantageous  to  herself,  and  consequently 
painful  to  her  friends." 


THE  FATAL   COSMETIC.  153 

"Keally,  Miss  Howard,"  cried  Miss  Lewis,  bridling,  and 
tossing  her  head  with  a  disdainful  air,  "  you  need  not  be  so 
afraid  of  my  giving  you  so  much  pain — I  will  not  intrude  my 
singing  upon  your  delicate  and  refined  ears." 

Mr.  Hall  made  a  movement  forward,  attracted  by  the  un 
common  sincerity  of  Miss  Howard's  remark. 

"  There,"  whispered  Charles,  "  is  a  girl  after  your  own  heart 
— Margaret  Howard  will  speak  the  truth,  however  unpalatable 
it  may  be,  and  see  what  wry  faces  poor  Miss  Lewis  makes  iti 
trying  not  to  swallow  it — I  am  sure  Mary  Ellis's  flattery  is  a 
thousand  times  kinder  and  more  amiable." 

Mr.  Hall  did  not  answer.  His  eyes  were  perusing  the  face 
of  her,  whose  lips  had  just  given  such  honourable  testimony 
to  a  virtue  so  rarely  respected  by  the  world  of  fashion.  A 
decent  boldness  lighted  up  the  clear  hazel  eyes  that  did  not 
seem  to  be  unconscious  of  the  dark  and  penetrating  glances  at 
that  moment  resting  upon  them.  She  was  dressed  with  re 
markable  simplicity.  No  decoration  in  colour  relieved  the 
spotless  whiteness  of  her  attire.  Her  hair  of  pale,  yet  shining 
brown,  was  plainly  parted  over  a  brow  somewhat  too  lofty  for 
mere  feminine  beauty,  but  white  and  smooth  as  Parian  marble. 
Her  features,  altogether,  bore  more  resemblance  to  a  Pallas 
than  a  Venus.  They  were  calm  and  pure,  but  somewhat  cold 
and  passionless — and  under  that  pale,  transparent  skin,  there 
seemed  no  under  current,  ebbing  and  flowing  with  the  crimson 
tide  of  the  heart.  Her  figure,  veiled  to  the  throat,  was  of  fine, 
though  not  very  slender  proportions.  There  was  evidently  no 
artificial  compression  about  the  waist,  no  binding  ligatures  to 
prevent  the  elastic  motions  of  the  limbs,  the  pliable  and  grace 
ful  movements  of  nature. 

"  She  has  a  fine  face — a  very  handsome  face,"  repeated 
Charles,  responding  to  what  Mr.  Hall  looked,  for  as  yet  he 
had  uttered  nothing ;  "  but  to  me,  it  is  an  uninteresting  one. 
She  is  not  generally  liked — respected,  it  is  true,  but  feared — 
and  fear  is  a  feeling  which  few  young  ladies  would  wish  to 
inspire.  It  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  live  above  the  world — at 
least,  for  a  woman." 

Charles  availed  himself  of  the  earliest  opportunity  of  intro 
dueing  his  friend  to  Miss  Howard,  glad  to  be  liberated  for  a 
wbi.o  from  the  close  companionship  of  a  man  who  made  him 
feel  strangely  uncomfortable  with  regard  to  himself,  and  weL 
pleased  with  the  opportunity  of  conversing  with  his  favourite, 
Mary  Ellis. 


THE   FATAL   COSMETIC. 

"I  feel  quite  vexed  with  Margaret,"  said  this  thoughtless 
girl,  "  for  spoiling  my  compliment  to  Miss  Lewis.  I  would 
give  one  of  my  little  fingers  to  catch  her  for  once  in  a  white 
lie." 

"Ask  her  if  she  does  not  think  herself  handsome,"  said 
Charles ;  "  no  woman  ever  acknowledged  that  truth,  though 
none  be  more  firmly  believed." 

He  little  expected  she  would  act  upon  his  suggestion,  but 
Mary  was  too  much  delighted  at  the  thought  of  seeing  the  un 
compromising  Margaret  guilty  of  a  prevarication,  to  suffer  it 
to  pass  unheeded. 

"  Margaret,"  cried  she,  approaching  her,  unawed  by  the 
proximity  of  the  majestic  stranger — "  Mr.  Brown  says  you 
will  deny  that  you  think  yourself  handsome.  Tell  me  the 
truth — don't  you  bejieve  yourself  very  handsome  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  truth,  Mary,"  replied  Margaret,  blush 
ing  so  brightly,  as  to  give  an  actual  radiance  to  her  face,  "  that 
is,  if  I  speak  at  all.  But  I  would  rather  decline  giving  any 
opinion  of  myself." 

"  Ah  !  Margaret,"  persisted  Miss  Ellis,  "  I  have  heard  you 
say  that  to  conceal  the  truth,  when  it  was  required  of  us,  un 
less  some  moral  duty  were  involved,  was  equivalent  to  a  false 
hood.  Bear  witness,  Charles,  here  is  one  subject  on  which 
even  Margaret  Howard  dares  not  speak  the  truth." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  replied  Miss  Howard ;  "  since  you 
force  me  to  speak,  by  attacking  my  principles,  I  am  very  will 
ing  to  say,  I  do  think  myself  handsome  ;  but  not  so  conspicu 
ously  as  to  allow  me  to  claim  a  superiority  over  my  sex,  or  to 
justify  so  singular  and  unnecessary  a  question." 

All  laughed — even  the  grave  Mr.  Hall  smiled  at  the  frank 
ness  of  the  avowal — all  but  Miss  Lewis,  who,  turning  up  her 
eyes  and  raising  her  hands,  exclaimed,  "  Really,  Miss  Howard's 
modesty  is  equal  to  her  politeness.  I  thought  she  despised 
beauty." 

"  The  gifts  of  God  are  never  to  be  despised,"  answered  Miss 
Howard,  mildly.  "  If  he  has  graced  the  outer  temple,  we 
should  only  be  more  careful  to  keep  the  indwelling  spirit 
pure." 

She  drew  back,  as  if  pained  by  the  observation  she  had  ex 
cited  ;  and  the  deep  and  modest  colour  gradually  faded  from 
her  cheek.  Mr.  Hall  had  not  been  an  uninterested  listener. 
He  was  a  sad  and  disappointed  man.  He  had  been  the  victim 
of  a  woman's  perfidy  and  falsehood — and  was  consequently 


THE   FATAL   COSMETIC.  15G 

distrustful  of  the  whole  sex ;  and  his  health  had  suffered  from 
the  corrosion  of  his  feelings,  and  he  had  been  compelled  to 
seek,  in  a  milder  clime,  a  balm  which  time  alone  could  yield. 
He  had  been  absent  several  years,  and  was  just  returned  to  his 
native  country,  but  not  to  the  scene  of  his  former  residence. 
The  wound  was  healed,  but  the  hardness  of  the  scar  remained. 

One  greater  and  purer  than  the  Genius  of  the  Arabian 
Tale,  had  placed  in  his  breast  a  mirror,  whose  lustre  would 
be  instantaneously  dimmed  by  the  breath  of  falsehood  or  dis 
simulation.  It  was  in  this  mirror  he  saw  reflected  the  actions 
of  his  fellow  beings,  and  it  pained  him  to  see  its  bright  surface 
so  constantly  sullied.  Never,  since  the  hour  he  was  so  fatally 
deceived,  had  he  been  in  the  presence  of  woman,  without  a 
melancholy  conviction  that  she  was  incapable  of  standing  the 
test  of  this  bosom  talisman.  Here,  however,  was  one,  whose 
lips  cast  no  cloud  upon  its  lustre.  He  witnessed  the  marvel 
lous  spectacle  of  a  young,  beautiful,  and  accomplished  woman, 
surrounded  by  the  artifices  and  embellishments  of  fashionable 
life,  speaking  the  truth,  in  all  simplicity  and  godly  sincerity,  ag 
commanded  by  the  holy  men  of  old.  There  was  something  in 
the  sight  that  renovated  and  refreshed  his  blighted  feelings. 
The  dew  falling  on  the  parched  herbage,  prepares  it  for  the 
influence  of  a  kinder  ray.  Even  so  the  voice  of  Margaret 
Howard,  gentle  in  itself  and  persuasive,  advocating  the  cause 
he  most  venerated,  operated  this  night  on  the  heart  of  Mr. 
Hall. 

For  many  weeks  the  same  party  frequently  met  at  the  dwell 
ing  of  Mrs.  Astor.  This  lady  was  a  professed  patroness  and 
admirer  of  genius  and  the  fine  arts.  To  be  a  fine  painter,  a 
fine  singer,  a  fine  writer,  a  traveller,  or  a  foreigner,  was  a  direct 
passport  to  her  favour.  To  be  distinguished  in  any  manner  in 
society  was  sufficient,  provided  it  was  not  "  bad  eminence" 
which  was  attained  by  the  individual.  She  admired  Mr.  Hall 
for  the  stately  gloom  of  his  mien,  his  dark  and  foreign  air,  his 
peculiar  and  high-wrought  sentiments.  She  sought  an  intimacy 
with  Margaret  Howard,  for  it  was  a  distinction  to  be  her  friend, 
and,  moreover,  she  had  an  exquisite  taste  and  skill  in  drawing 
and  painting.  Mary  Ellis  was  a  particular  favourite  of  hers, 
because  her  own  favourite  cousin  Charles  Brown  thought  hei 
the  most  fascinating  young  lady  of  his  acquaintance.  Mrs. 
Astor's  house  was  elegantly  furnished,  and  her  rooms  were 
adorned  with  rare  and  beautiful  specimens  of  painting  and 
statuary.  She  had  one  apartment  which  she  called  her  Gallery 


156  THE   FATAL   COSMETIC. 

of  Fine  Arts,  and  every  new  guest  was  duly  ushered  into  this 
ganctuary,  and  called  upon  to  look  and  admire  the  glowing 
canvas  and  the  breathing  marble.  A  magnificent  pier-glass 
was  placed  on  one  side  of  the  hall,  so  as  to  reflect  and  multiply 
these  classic  beauties.  It  had  been  purchased  in  Europe,  and 
was  remarkable  for  its  thickness,  brilliancy,  and  fidelity  of  re 
flection.  It  was  a  favourite  piece  of  furniture  of  Mrs.  Astor' s, 
and  all  her  servants  were  warned  to  be  particularly  careful, 
whenever  they  dusted  its  surface.  As  this  glass  is  of  some 
importance  in  the  story,  it  deserves  a  minute  description.  Mrs. 
Astor  thought  the  only  thing  necessary  to  complete  the  fur 
nishing  of  the  gallery,  were  transparencies  for  the  windows. 
Miss  Howard,  upon  hearing  the  remark,  immediately  offered 
to  supply  the  deficiency,  an  offer  at  once  eagerly  accepted,  and 
Mrs.  Astor  insisted  that  her  painting  apparatus  should  be  placed 
in  the  very  room,  that  she  might  receive  all  the  inspiration  to 
be  derived  from  the  mute  yet  eloquent  relics  of  genius,  that 
there  solicited  the  gaze.  Nothing  could  be  more  delightful 
than  the  progress  of  the  work.  Margaret  was  an  enthusiast 
in  the  art,  and  her  kindling  cheek  always  attested  the  triumph 
of  her  creating  hand.  Mrs.  Astor  was  in  a  constant  state  of 
excitement,  till  the  whole  was  completed,  and  it  was  no  light 
task,  as  four  were  required,  and  the  windows  were  of  an  extra 
size.  Almost  every  day  saw  the  fair  artist  seated  at  her  easel, 
with  the  same  group  gathered  round  her.  Mary  Ellis  admired 
everything  so  indiscriminately,  it  was  impossible  to  attach 
much  value  to  her  praise;  but  Mr.  Hall  criticised  as  well  as 
admired,  and  as  he  had  the  painter's  eye,  and  the  poet's  tongue, 
Margaret  felt  the  value  of  his  suggestions,  and  the  interest 
they  added  to  her  employment.  Above  all  things,  she  felt 
their  truth.  She  saw  that  he  never  flattered,  that  he  dared  to 
blame,  and  when  he  did  commend,  she  was  conscious  the 
tribute  was  deserved.  Margaret  was  not  one  of  those  beings, 
who  cannot  do  but  one  thing  at  a  time.  She  could  talk  and 
listen,  while  her  hands  were  applying  the  brush  or  arranging 
the  colours,  and  look  up  too  from  the  canvas,  with  a  glance 
that  showed  how  entirely  she  participated  in  what  was  passing 
around  her. 

"  I  wonder  you  are  not  tired  to  death  of  that  everlasting 
easel,"  said  Mary  Ellis  to  Margaret,  who  grew  every  day  more 
interested  in  her  task.  "  I  could  not  endure  such  confine 
ment." 

"  Death  and  everlasting  are  solemn  words  to  be  so  lightly 


THE   FATAL   COSMETIC.  Ib7 

Used,  my  dear  Mary,"  answered  Margaret,  whose  religious  ear 
was  always  pained  by  levity  on  sacred  themes. 

"  I  would  not  be  as  serious  us  you  are,  for  a  thousand 
worlds,"  replied  Mary,  laughing;  "I  really  believe  you  think 
it  a  sin  to  smile.  Give  me  the  roses  of  life,  let  who  will  take 
the  thorns.  I  am  going  now  to  gather  some,  if  I  can,  and 
leave  you  and  Mr.  Hall  to  enjoy  all  the  briers  you  can  find." 

She  left  the  room  gayly  singing,  sure  to  be  immediately  fol 
lowed  by  Charles,  and  Mr.  Hall  was  left  sole  companion  of  the 
artist.  Mary  had  associated  their  names  together,  for  the  pur 
pose  of  disturbing  the  self-possession  of  Margaret,  and  she 
certainly  succeeded  in  her  object.  Had  Mr.  Hall  perceived 
her  heightened  colour,  his  vanity  might  have  drawn  a  flatter 
ing  inference;  but  he  was  standing  behind  her  easel,  and  his 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  beautiful  personification  of  Faith,  Hope, 
and  Charity — those  three  immortal  graces — she  was  delineat 
ing,  as  kneeling  and  embracing,  with  upturned  eyes  and  celes 
tial  wings.  It  was  a  lovely  group — the  last  of  the  transparen 
cies,  and  Margaret  lavished  on  it  some  of  the  finest  touches 
of  her  genius.  Mary  had  repeated  a  hundred  times  that  it 
was  finished,  that  another  stroke  of  the  pencil  would  ruin  it, 
and  Mrs.  Astor  declared  it  perfect,  and  more  than  perfect,  but 
still  Margaret  lingered  at  the  frame,  believing  every  tint  should 
be  the  last.  Every  lover  of  the  arts  knows  the  fascination 
attending  the  successful  exercise  and  development  of  their 
genius — of  seeing  bright  and  warm  imaginings  assume  a  colour 
ing  and  form,  and  giving  to  others  a  transcript  of  the  mind's 
glorious  creations ;  but  every  artist  does  not  know  what  deeper 
charm  may  be  added  by  the  conversation  and  companionship 
of  such  a  being  as  Mr.  Hall.  He  was  what  might  be  called 
a  fascinating  man,  notwithstanding  the  occasional  gloom  and 
general  seriousness  of  his  manners.  For,  when  flashes  of 
sensibility  lighted  up  that  gloom,  and  intellect,  excited  and 
brought  fully  into  action,  illumined  that  seriousness — it  was 
like  moonlight  shining  on  some  ruined  castle,  beauty  and 
grandeur  meeting  together  and  exalting  each  other,  from  the 
effect  of  contrast.  Then  there  was  a  deep  vein  of  piety  per 
vading  all  his  sentiments  and  expressions.  The  comparison  of 
the  ruined  castle  is  imperfect.  The  moonbeams  falling  on 
some  lofty  cathedral,  with  its  pillared  dome  and  "  long-drawn 
aisles,"  is  a  better  similitude,  for  devotion  hallowed  and  elevated 
evr.ry  faculty  of  his  soul.  Margaret,  who  had  lived  in  a  world 
of  her  own,  surrounded  by  a  purer  atmosphere,  lonely  and 


158  THE   FATAL   COSMETIC. 

somewhat  unapproachable,  felt  as  if  she  were  no  longer  solitary, 
for  here  was  one  who  thought  and  sympathized  with  her ;  one, 
too,  who  seemed  sanctified  and  set  apart  from  others,  b}7  a  kind 
of  mysterious  sorrow,  which  the  instinct  of  woman  told  her 
had  its  source  in  the  heart. 

"  I  believe  I  am  too  serious,  as  Mary  says,"  cried  Margaret, 
first  breaking  the  silence;  "  but  it  seems  to  me  the  thoughtless 
alone  can  be  gay.  I  am  young  in  years,  but  I  began  to  reflect 
early,  and  from  the  moment  I  took  in  the  mystery  of  life  and 
all  its  awful  dependencies,  I  ceased  to  be  mirthful.  I  am  doomed 
to  pay  a  constant  penalty  for  the  singularity  of  my  feelings  : 
like  the  priestess  of  the  ancient  temples,  I  am  accused  of  utter 
ing  dark  sayings  of  old,  and  casting  the  shadows  of  the  future 
over  the  joys  of  the  present." 

Margaret  seldom  alluded  to  herself,  but  Mary's  accusation 
about  the  thorns  and  briers  had  touched  her,  where  perhaps 
alone  she  was  vulnerable ;  and  in  the  frankness  of  her  nature, 
she  uttered  what  was  paramount  in  her  thoughts. 

"Happy  they  who  are  taught  by  reflection,  not  experience, 
to  look  seriously,  though  not  sadly  on  the  world,"  said  Mr. 
Hall,  earnestly ;  "  who  mourn  from  philanthropy  over  its  folly 
and  falsehood,  not  because  that  falsehood  and  folly  have 
blighted  their  dearest  hopes,  nay,  cut  them  off,  root  and  branch, 
for  ever." 

Margaret  was  agitated,  and  for  a  moment  the  pencil  wavered 
in  her  hand.  She  knew  Mr.  Hall  must  have  been  unhappy — 
that  he  was  still  suffering  from  corroding  remembrances — and 
often  had  she  wished  to  pierce  through  the  mystery  that  hung 
over  his  past  life;  but  now,  when  he  himself  alluded  to  it,  she 
shrunk  from  an  explanation.  He  seemed  himself  to  regret 
the  warmth  of  his  expressions,  and  to  wish  to  efface  the  im 
pression  they  had  made,  for  his  attention  became  riveted  on 
the  picture,  which  he  declared  wanted  only  one  thing  to  make 
it  perfect — "  And  what  was  that  T' — "  Truth  encircling  the 
trio  with  her  golden  band." 

"  It  may  yet  be  done,"  cried  Margaret;  and,  with  great  ani 
mation  and  skill,  she  sketched  the  outline  suggested. 

It  is  delightful  to  have  one's  own  favourite  sentiments  and 
feelings  embodied  by  another,  and  that  too  with  a  graceful 
readiness  and  apparent  pleasure,  that  shows  a  congeniality  of 
thought  and  taste.  Mr.  Hall  was  not  insensible  to  this  charm 
in  Margaret  Howard.  He  esteemed,  revered,  admired,  he 
wished  that  he  dared  to  love  her.  But  all  charming  and  true 


THE   FATAL  COSMETIC.  159 

as  she  seemed,  she  was  still  a  woman,  and  ho  might  be  again 
deceived.  It  would  be  a  terrible  thing  to  embark  his  happinesa 
once  more  on  the  waves  which  had  once  overwhelmed  it  j  and 
find  himself  again  a  shipwrecked  mariner,  cast  upon  the  cruel 
desert  of  existence.  The  feelings  which  Margaret  inspired 
were  so  different  from  the  stormy  passions  which  had  reigned 
over  him,  it  is  no  wonder  he  was  unconscious  of  their  strength 
and  believed  himself  still  his  own  master. 

"  Bless  me/'  said  Mary,  who,  entering  soon  after,  banished^ 
as  she  said,  Mr.  Hall  from  her  presence,  for  he  retired;  "if 
you  have  not  added  another  figure  to  the  group.  I  have  a 
great  mind  to  blot  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,  as  well  as  Truth 
frtfm  existence,"  and  playfully  catching  hold  of  the  frame,  she 
pretended  to  sweep  her  arm  over  their  faces. 

"  Oh  !  Mary,  beware  I"  exclaimed  Margaret ;  but  the  warn 
ing  came  too  late.  The  easel  tottered  and  fell  instantaneously 
against  the  magnificent  glass,  upon  which  Mrs.  Astor  set  such 
an  immense  value,  and  broke  it  into  a  thousand  pieces.  Mary 
looked  aghast,  and  Margaret  turned  pale  as  she  lifted  her 
picture  from  amid  the  ruins. 

"  It  is  not  spoiled,"  said  she;  "but  the  glass  !" 

"  Oh  !  the  glass  !"  eried  Mary,  looking  the  image  of  despair; 
"  what  shall  I  do  ?  What  will  Mrs.  Astor  say  ?  She  will 
never  forgive  me !" 

"  She  cannot  be  so  vindictive !"  replied  Margaret ;  "  but  it 
is  indeed  an  unfortunate  accident,  and  one  for  which  I  feel 
particularly  responsible." 

"Do  not  tell  her  how  it  happened,"  cried  Mary,  shrinking 
with  moral  cowardice  from  the  revealing  of  the  truth.  "  I 
cannot  brave  her  displeasure ! — Chai'les,  too,  will  be  angry 
with  me,  and  I  cannot  bear  that.  Oh !  pray,  dearest  Margaret, 
pray  do  not  tell  her  that  it  was  I  who  did  it — you  know  it 
would  be  so  natural  for  the  easel  to  fall  without  any  rash  hand 
to  push  it.  Promise  me,  Margaret." 

Margaret  turned  her  clear,  rebuking  eye  upon  the  speaker 
with  a  mingled  feeling  of  indignation  and  pity. 

"  I  will  not  expose  you,  Mary,"  said  she,  calmly ;  and,  with 
drawing  herself  from  the  rapturous  embrace,  in  which  Mary 
expressed  her  gratitude,  she  began  to  pick  up  the  fragments 
of  the  mirror,  while  Mary,  unwilling  to  look  on  the  wreck  she 
had  made,  flew  out  to  regain  her  composure.  It  happened  that 
Mr.  Hall  passed  the  window  while  Margaret  was  thus  occu 
pied  j  aud  he  paused  a  moment  to  watch  her,  for  iu  spite  of 


150  THE   FATAL  COSMETIC. 

himself,  he  felt  a  deep  and  increasing  interest  in  every  action 
of  Margaret's.  Margaret  saw  his  shadow  as  it  lingered,  but 
she  continued  her  employment.  He  did  not  doubt  that  she 
had  caused  the  accident,  for  he  had  left  her  alone,  a  few  mo 
ments  before,  and  he  was  not  conscious  that  any  one  had  entered 
since  his  departure.  Though  he  regretted  any  circumstance 
which  might  give  pain  to  her,  he  anticipated  a  pleasure  in 
seeing  the  openness  and  readiness  with  which  she  would  avow 
herself  the  aggressor,  and  blame  herself  for  her  carelessness. 

Margaret  found  herself  in  a  very  unpleasant  situation.  She 
had  promised  not  to  betray  the  cowardly  Mary,  and  she  knew 
that  whatever  blame  would  be  attached  to  the  act,  would  rest 
upon  herself.  But  were  Mrs.  Astor  to  question  her  upon  the 
subject,  she  could  not  deviate  from  the  truth,  by  acknowledg 
ing  a  fault  she  had  never  committed.  She  felt  an  unspeakable 
contempt  for  Mary's  weakness,  for,  had  she  been  in  her  place, 
she  would  have  acknowledged  the  part  she  had  acted,  unhesi 
tatingly,  secure  of  the  indulgence  of  friendship  and  benevo 
lence.  "  Better  to  leave  the  circumstance  to  speak  for  itself," 
said  Margaret  to  herself,  "  and  of  course  the  burden  will  rest 
upon  me."  She  sighed  as  she  thought  of  the  happy  hours  she 
had  passed,  by  the  side  of  that  mirror,  and  how  often  she  had 
seen  it  reflect  the  speaking  countenance  of  Mr.  Hall,  that 
tablet  of  "unutterable  thoughts,"  and  then  thinking  how  his 
hopes  seemed  shattered  like  that  frail  glass,  and  his  memories 
of  sorrow  multiplied,  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  all  earthly 
hopes  were  vain  and  all  earthly  memories  fraught  with  sadness. 
Never  had  Margaret  moralized  so  deeply  as  in  the  long  soli 
tary  walk  she  stole  that  evening,  to  escape  the  evil  of  being 
drawn  into  the  tacit  sanction  of  a  falsehood.  Like  many 
others,  with  equally  pure  intentions,  in  trying  to  avoid  one 
misfortune  she  incurred  a  greater. 

Mrs.  Astor  was  very  much  grieved  and  astonished  when 
she  discovered  her  loss.  With  all  her  efforts  to  veil  her  feel 
ings,  Mary  saw  she  was  displeased  with  Margaret,  and  would 
probably  never  value  as  they  deserved,  the  beautiful  transpa 
rencies  on  which  she  had  so  faithfully  laboured. 

"  I  would  not  have  cared  if  any  other  article  had  been  bro 
ken,"  said  Mrs.  Astor,  whose  weak  point  Mary  well  knew ; 
"  but  this  can  never  be  replaced.  I  do  not  so  much  value  the 
cost,  great  as  it  was,  but  it  was  perfectly  unique.  I  never 
B&w  another  like  it." 

Mary's  conscience  smote  her,  for  suffering  another  to  bear 


THE  FATAL  COSMETIC.  161 

the  imputation  she  herself  deserved.  A  sudden  plan  occurred 
to  her.  She  had  concealed  the  truth,  she  was  now  determined 
to  save  her  friend,  even  at  the  cost  of  a  lie. 

"I  do  not  believe  Margaret  broke  it,"  said  she.  "I  saw 
Dinah,  your  little  black  girl  in  the  room,  just  before  Margaret 
left  it,  and  you  know  how  often  you  have  punished  her  for 
putting  her  hands  on  forbidden  articles.  You  know  if  Margaret 
had  done  it,  she  would  have  acknowledged  it,  at  once." 

"  True,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Astor;  "  how  stupid  I  have  been  !" 
and  glad  to  find  a  channel  in  which  her  anger  could  flow,  un 
checked  by  the  restraints  of  politeness,  she  rung  the  bell  and 
summoned  the  unconscious  Dinah. 

In  vain  she  protested  her  innocence.  She  was  black,  and 
it  was  considered  a  matter  of  course  that  she  would  lie.  Mrs. 
Astor  took  her  arm  in  silence,  and  led  her  from  the  room,  in 
spite  of  her  prayers  and  protestations.  We  should  be  sorry 
to  reveal  the  secrets  of  the  prison-house,  but  from  the  cries 
that  issued  through  the  shut  door,  and  from  a  certain  whizzing 
sound  in  the  air,  one  might  judge  of  the  nature  of  the  punish 
ment  inflicted  on  the  innocent  victim  of  unmerited  wrath. 
Mary  closed  her  ears.  Every  sound  pierced  her  heart.  Some 
thing  told  her  those  shrieks  would  rise  up  in  judgment  against 
her  at  the  last  day.  "  Oh  !  how,"  thought  she,  "•  if  I  fear  the 
rebuke  of  my  fellow-creature  for  an  unintentional  offence, 
how  can  I  ever  appear  before  my  Creator,  with  the  blackness 
of  falsehood  and  the  hardness  of  cruelty  on  my  soul  ?"  She 
wished  she  had  had  the  courage  to  have  acted  right  in  the  first 
place,  but  now  it  was  too  late.  Charles  would  despise  her, 
and  that  very  day  he  had  told  her  that  he  loved  her  better 
than  all  the  world  beside.  She  tried,  too,  to  soothe  her  con 
science,  by  reflecting  that  Dinah  would  have  been  whipped  for 
something  else,  and  that  as  it  was  a  common  event  to  her,  it 
was,  after  all,  a  matter  of  no  great  consequence.  Mrs.  Astor, 
having  found  a  legitimate  vent  for  her  displeasure,  chased  the 
cloud  from  her  brow,  and  greeted  Margaret  with  a  smile,  on 
hsr  return,  slightly  alluding  to  the  accident,  evidently  trying 
to  rise  superior  to  the  event.  Margaret  was  surprised  and 
pleased.  She  expressed  her  own  regret,  but  as  she  imputed 
to  herself  no  blame,  Mrs.  Astor  was  confirmed  in  the  justice 
of  her  verdict.  Margaret  knew  not  what  had  passed  in  her 
absence,  for  Mrs.  Astor  was  too  refined  to  bring  her  domestic 
troubles  before  her  guests.  Mary,  who  was  the  only  one 
necessarily  initiated,  was  too  deeply  implicated  to  repeat  it, 


162  THE   FATAL   COSMETIC. 

and  the  subject  was  dismissed.  But  the  impression  remained 
on  one  mind,  painful  and  ineffaceable. 

Mr.  Hall  marked  Margaret's  conscious  blush  on  her  entrance, 
he  had  heard  the  cries  and  sobs  of  poor  Dinah,  and  was  not 
ignorant  of  the  cause.  He  believed  Margaret  was  aware  of 
the  fact — she,  the  true  offender.  A  pang,  keen  as  cold  steel 
can  create,  shot  through  his  heart  at  this  conviction.  He  had 
thought  her  so  pure,  so  true,  so  holy,  the  very  incarnation  of 
his  worshipped  virtue — and  now,  to  sacrifice  her  principles  for 
such  a  bauble — a  bit  of  frail  glass.  He  could  not  remain  in 
her  presence,  but,  complaining  of  a  headache,  suddenly  retired, 
but  not  before  he  had  cast  a  glance  on  Margaret,  so  cold  and 
freezing,  it  seemed  to  congeal  her  very  soul. 

"  He  believes  me  cowardly  and  false/'  thought  she,  for  she 
divined  what  was  passing  in  his  mind ;  and  if  ever  she  was 
tempted  to  be  so,  it  was  in  the  hope  of  reinstating  herself  in 
his  esteem.  She  had  given  her  promise  to  Mary,  however, 
and  it  was  not  to  be  broken.  Mary,  whose  feelings  were  as 
evanescent  as  her  principles  were  weak,  soon  forgot  the  whole 
affair  in  the  preparations  of  her  approaching  marriage  with 
Charles,  an  event  which  absorbed  all  her  thoughts,  as  it  involved 
all  her  hopes  of  happiness. 

Margaret  .finished  her  task,  but  the  charm  which  had  gilded 
the  occupation  was  fled.  Mr.  Hall  seldom  called,  and  when 
Le  did,  he  wore  all  his  original  reserve.  Margaret  felt  she 
had  not  deserved  this  alienation,  and  tried  to  cheer  herself 
with  the  conviction  of  her  own  integrity ;  but  her  spirits  were 
occasionally  dejected,  and  the  figure  of  Truth,  which  had  such 
a  beaming  outline,  assumed  the  aspect  of  utter  despondency. 
Dissatisfied  with  her  work,  she  at  last  swept  her  brush  over 
the  design,  and  mingling  Truth  with  the  dark  shades  of  the 
back  ground,  gave  up  her  office  as  an  artist,  declaring  her 
sketches  completed.  Mrs.  Astor  was  enraptured  with  the 
whole,  and  said  she  intended  to  reserve  them  for  the  night  of 
Mary's  wedding,  when  they  would  burst  upon  the  sight,  in  one 
grand  coup  d'oeil,  in  the  full  blaze  of  chandeliers,  bridal 
lamps,  and  nuptial  ornaments.  Margaret  was  to  officiate  as 
one  of  the  bridemaids,  but  she  gave  a  reluctant  consent.  She 
could  not  esteem  Mary,  and  she  shrunk  from  her  flattery  and 
caresses  with  an  instinctive  loathing.  She  had  once  set  her 
foot  on  a  flowery  bank,  that  edged  a  beautiful  stream.  The 
turf  trembled  and  gave  way,  for  it  was  hollow  below,  and 
Margaret  narrowly  escaped  death.  She  often  shuddered  at 


THE   FATAL  COSMETIC.  163 

the  recollection.  With  similar  emotions  she  turned  from  Mary 
Ellis's  smiles  and  graces.  There  was  beauty  and  bloom  on  the 
surface,  but  hollowness  and  perhaps  ruin  beneath. 

A  short  time  before  the  important  day,  a  slight  efflorescence 
appeared  on  the  fair  cheek  and  neck  of  Mary.  She  was  in 
despair,  lest  her  loveliness  should  be  marred,  when  she  most 
of  all  wished  to  shine.  It  increased  instead  of  diminishing, 
and  she  resolved  to  have  recourse  to  any  remedy,  that  would 
remove  the  disfiguring  eruption.  She  recollected  having  seen. 
a  violent  erysipelas  cured  immediately  by  a  solution  of  corro 
sive  sublimate ;  and  without  consulting  any  one,  she  sent  Dinah 
to  the  apothecary  to  purchase  some,  charging  her  to  tell  no  one 
whose  errand  she  was  bearing,  for  she  was  not  willing  to  con 
fess  her  occasion  for  such  a  cosmetic.  Dinah  told  the  apothe 
cary  her  mistress  sent  her,  and  it  was  given  without  questioning 
or  hesitation.  Her  only  confidant  was  Margaret,  who  shared 
her  chamber  and  toilet,  and  who  warned  her  to  be  exceedingly 
cautious  in  the  use  of  an  article  so  poisonous ;  and  Mary  pro 
mised  with  her  usual  heedlessness,  without  dreaming  of  any 
evil  consequences.  The  eruption  disappeared — Mary  looked 
fairer  than  ever,  and,  clad  in  her  bridal  paraphernalia  of  white 
satin,  white  roses,  and  blonde  lace,  was  pronounced  the  most 
beautiful  bride  of  the  season.  Mr.  Hall  was  present,  though 
he  had  refused  to  take  any  part  in  the  ceremony.  He  could 
not,  without  singularity,  decline  the  invitation  and,  notwith 
standing  the  blow  his  confidence  in  Margaret's  character  had 
received,  he  still  found  the  spot  where  she  was,  enchanted 
ground,  and  he  lingered  near,  unwilling  to  break  at  once  the 
only  charm  that  still  bound  him  to  society.  After  the  short 
but  solemn  rite,  that  made  the  young  and  thoughtless,  one  by 
indissoluble  ties,  and  the  rush  of  congratulation  took  place, 
Margaret  was  forced  by  the  pressure  close  to  Mr.  Hall's  side. 
He  involuntarily  offered  his  arm  as  a  protection,  and  a  thrill 
of  irrepressible  happiness  pervaded  his  heart,  at  this  unexpected 
and  unsought  proximity.  He  forgot  his  coldness — the  broken, 
glass,  everything  but  the  feeling  of  the  present  moment. 
Margaret  was  determined-  to  avail  herself  of  the  tide  of  re 
turning  confidence.  Mer  just  womanly  modesty  and  pride  pre 
vented  her  seeking  an  explanation  and  reconciliation,  but  she 
knew  without  breaking  her  promise  to  Mary,  she  could  not 
justify  herself  in  Mr.  Hall's  opinion,  if  even  the  opportunity 
offered.  She  was  to  depart  in  the  morning,  with  the  new- 
married  pair,  who  were  going  to  take  an  excursion  of  pleasure, 


164  THE   FATAL   COSMETIC. 

so  fashionable  after  the  wedding  ceremony.  She  might  n<iver 
see  him  again.  He  had  looked  pale,  his  face  was  now  ftiiohed 
high  with  excited  feeling. 

"  You  have  wronged  me,  Mr.  Hall,"  said  she,  blushing;,  but 
without  hesitation ;  "  if  you  think  I  have  been  capable  of 
wilful  deception  or  concealment.  The  mirror  was  not  broken 
by  me,  though  I  know  you  thought  me  guilty,  and  afraid  or 
ashamed  to  avow  the  truth.  I  would  not  say  so  much  to 
justify  myself,  if  I  did  not  think  you  would  believe  me,  aud 
if  I  did  not  value  the  esteem  of  one  who  sacrifices  even  friend 
ship  at  the  shrine  of  truth." 

She  smiled,  for  she  saw  she  was  believed,  and  there  was 
such  a  glow  of  pleasure  irradiating  Mr.  Hall's  countenance,  it 
was  like  the  breaking  and  gushing  forth  of  sunbeams.  There 
are  few  faces,  on  which  a  smile  has  such  a  magic  effect  as  on 
Margaret's.  Her  smile  was  never  forced.  It  was  the  inspi 
ration  of  truth,  and  all  the  light  of  her  soul  shone  through  it. 
Perhaps  neither  ever  experienced  an  hour  of  deeper  happiness 
than  that  which  followed  this  simple  explanation.  Margaret 
felt  a  springtide  of  hope  and  joy  swelling  in  her  heart,  for  there 
was  a  deference,  a  tenderness  in  Mr.  Hall's  manner  she  had 
never  seen  before.  He  seemed  entirely  to  have  forgotten  the 
presence  of  others,  when  a  name  uttered  by  one  near,  arrested 
his  attention. 

"  That  is  Mrs.  St.  Henry/'  observed  a  lady,  stretching 
eagerly  forward.  "  She  arrived  in  town  this  morning,  and 
had  letters  of  introduction  to  Mrs.  Astor.  She  was  the  beauty 

of ,  before  her  marriage,  and  is  still  the  leader  of  fashion 

and  taste." 

Margaret  felt  her  companion  start,  as  if  a  ball  had  penetrated 
him,  and  looking  up,  she  saw  his  altered  glance,  fixed  on  the 
lady,  who  had  just  entered,  with  a  dashing  escort,  and  was 
advancing  towards  the  centre  of  the  room.  She  was  dressed 
in  the  extremity  of  the  reigning  mode — her  arms  and  Deck 
entirely  uncovered,  and  their  dazzling  whiteness,  thus  lavishly 
displayed,  might  have  mocked  the  polish  and  purity  of  ala 
baster.  Her  brilliant  black  eyes  flashed  on  either  side,  with 
the  freedom  of  conscious  beauty,  and  disdain  of  the  homage  it 
inspired.  She  moved  with  the  air  of  a  queen,  attended  by  her 
vassals,  directly  forward,  when  suddenly  her  proud  step  faltered, 
her  cheek  and  lips  became  wan,  and  uttering  a  sudden  ejacu 
lation,  she  stood  for  a  moment  perfectly  still.  She  was  op 
posite  Mr.  Hall,  whose  eye,  fixed  upon  hers,  seemed  to  have  the 


THE   FATAL  COSMETIC.  165 

effect  of  fascination.  Though  darkened  by  the  burning  sun 
of  a  tropical  clime,  and  faded  from  the  untimely  blighting  of 
the  heart,  that  face  could  never  be  forgotten.  It  told  her  of 
perjury,  remorse,  sorrow — yes,  of  sorrow,  for  in  spite  of  the 
/splendour  that  surrounded  her,  this  glittering  beauty  was 
wretched.  She  had  sacrificed  herself  at  the  shrine  of  Mam 
mon,  and  had  learned  too  late  the  horror  of  such  ties,  unsancti- 
Qed  by  affection.  Appreciating  but  too  well  the  value  of  the 
Jove  she  had  forsaken,  goaded  by  remorse  for  her  conduct  to 
him,  whom  she  believed  wasting  away  in  a  foreign  land — she 
flew  from  one  scene  of  dissipation  to  another,  seeking  in  the 
admiration  of  the  world  an  equivalent  for  her  lost  happiness. 
The  unexpected  apparition  of  her  lover  was  as  startling  and 
appalling  as  if  she  had  met  an  inhabitant  of  another  world. 
She  tried  to  rally  herself  and  to  pass  on,  but  the  effort  was  iu 
vain — sight,  strength,  and  recollection  forsook  her. 

"  Mrs.  St.  Henry  has  fainted  !  Mrs.  St.  Henry  has  fainted  !" 
— was  now  echoed  from  mouth  to  mouth.  A  lady's  fainting, 
whether  in  church,  ball-room,  or  assembly,  always  creates  a 
great  sensation ;  but  when  that  lady  happens  to  be  the  centre 
of  attraction  and  admiration,  when  every  eye  that  has  a  loop 
hole  to  peep  through  is  gazing  on  her  brilliant  features,  to  fee- 
hold  her  suddenly  fall,  as  if  smitten  by  the  angel  of  death, 
pallid  and  moveless — the  effect  is  inconceivably  heightened. 
When,  too,  as  in  the  present  instance,  a  sad,  romantic-looking 
stranger  rushes  forward  to  support  her,  the  interest  of  the 
scene  admits  of  no  increase.  At  least  Margaret  felt  so,  as 
she  saw  the  beautiful  Mrs.  St.  Henry  borne  in  the  arms  of  Mr. 
Hall  through  the  crowd,  that  fell  back  as  he  passed,  into  au 
adjoining  apartment,  speedily  followed  by  Mrs.  Astor,  all 
wonder  and  excitement,  and  many  others  all  curiosity  and  ex 
pectation,  to  witness  the  termination  of  the  scene.  Mr.  Hall 
drew  back,  while  the  usual  appliances  were  administered  for 
her  resuscitation.  He  heeded  not  the  scrutinizing  glances  bent 
upon  him.  His  thoughts  were  rolled  within  himself,  and 

"  The  soul  of  other  days  came  rushing  in." 

The  lava  that  had  hardened  over  the  ruin  it  created,  melted 
anew,  and  the  greenness  and  fragrance  of  new-born  hopes  were 
lost  under  the  burning  tide.  When  Mrs.  St.  Henry  opened 
her  eyes,  she  looked  round  her  in  wild  alarm ;  then  shading  her 
brow  with  her  hand,  her  glance  rested  where  Mr.  Hall  stood, 


166  THE   FATAL   COSMETIC. 

pale  and  abstracted,  with  folded  arms,  leaning  against  ilia 
wall — <k  I  thought  so,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice,  "I  thought 
so  j" — then  covered  her  eyes  and  remajned  silent.  Mr.  Hall, 
the  moment  he  heard  the  sound  of  her  voice  and  was  assured 
of  her  recovery,  precipitately  retired,  leaving  behind  him 
matter  of  deep  speculation.  Margaret  was  sitting  in  a  window 
of  the  drawing-room,  through  which  he  passed.  She  was  alone, 
or  even  the  bride  was  forgotten  in  the  excitement  of  the  pas 
cene.  He  paused — he  felt  an  explanation  was  due  to  her, 
but  that  it  was  impossible  to  make  it.  He  was  softened  by 
the  sad  and  sympathizing  expression  of  her  countenance,  and 
seated  himself  a  moment  by  her  side. 

"I  have  been  painfully  awakened  from  a  dream  of  bliss," 
said  he,  "  which  I  was  foolish  enough  to  imagine  might  yet  be 
realized.  But  the  heart  rudely  shattered  as  mine  has  been, 
must  never  hope  to  be  healed.  I  cannot  command  myself 
sufficiently  to  say  more,  only  let  me  make  one  assurance,  that 
whatever  misery  has  been  and  may  yet  be  my  doom,  guilt  has 
no  share  in  my  wretchedness — I  cannot  refuse  myself  the 
consolation  of  your  esteem." 

Margaret  made  no  reply — she  could  not.  Had  her  exist 
ence  depended  on  the  utterance  of  one  word,  she  could  not 
have  commanded  it.  She  extended  her  hand,  however,  in 
token  of  that  friendship  she  believed  was  hereafter  to  be  the 
only  bond  that  was  to  unite  them.  Long  after  Mr.  Hall  was 
gone,  she  sat  in  the  same  attitude,  pale  and  immovable  as  a 
statue  ;  but  who  can  tell  the  changes  and  conflicts  of  her  spirit, 
in  that  brief  period  ? 

Mrs.  St.  Henry  was  too  ill  to  be  removed,  and  Mrs.  Astor 
was  unbounded  in  her  attentions.  She  could  hardly  regret  a 
circumstance  which  forced  so  interesting  and  distinguished  a 
personage  upon  the  acceptance  of  her  hospitality.  Margaret 
remained  with  her  during  the  greater  part  of  the  night,  appre 
hensive  of  a  renewal  of  the  fainting  fits,  to  which  she  acknow 
ledged  she  was  constitutionally  subject.  Margaret  watched 
ner  as  she  lay,  her  face  scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from  the 
sheet,  it  was  so  exquisitely  fair,  were  it  not  for  the  shading  of 
the  dark  locks,  that  fell  unbound  over  the  pillow,  still  heavy 
with  the  moisture  with  which  they  had  been  saturated ;  and,  aa 
she  contemplated  her  marvellous  loveliness,  she  wondered  not 
at  the  influence  she  exercised  over  the  destiny  of  another. 
Mr.  Hall  had  once  spoken  of  himself  as  being  the  victim  of 
falsehood.  Could  she  have  been  false — and  loving  him,  how 


THE   FATAL   COSMETIC.  167 

could  she  Lave  married  another?  If  she  had  voluntarily 
broken  her  troth,  why  such  an  agitation  at  his  sight  ?  and  if 
she  were  worthy  of  his  love,  why  such  a  glaring  display  of  her 
person,  such  manifest  courting  of  the  free  gaze  of  admiration  ? 
These,  and  a  thousand  similar  interrogations,  did  Margaret 
make  to  herself  during  the  vigils  of  the  night,  but  they  found 
no  answer.  Towards  morning,  the  lady  slept ;  but  Margaret 
was  incapable  of  sleep,  and  her  wakeful  eyes  caught  the  first 
gray  tint  of  the  dawn,  and  marked  it  deepening  and  kindling, 
till  the  east  was  robed  with  flame,  the  morning  livery  of  the 
skies.  All  was  bustle  till  the  bridal  party  was  on  their  way. 
Mrs.  St.  Henry  still  slept,  under  the  influence  of  an  opiate, 
and  Margaret  saw  her  no  more.  Farewells  were  exchanged, 
kind  wishes  breathed,  and  the  travellers  commenced  their 
journey.  Margaret's  thoughts  wandered  from  Mrs.  St.  Henry 
to  Mr.  Hall,  and  back  again,  till  they  were  weary  of  wander 
ing  and  would  gladly  have  found  rest ;  but  the  waters  had  not 
subsided,  there  was  no  green  spot  where  the  dove  of  peace 
could  fold  her  drooping  wings.  Charles  and  Mary  were  too 
much  occupied  by  each  other  to  notice  her  silence ;  and  it  was 
not  till  they  paused  in  their  journey,  she  was  recalled  to  exist 
ing  realities.  Mary  regretted  something  she  had  left  behind — 
a  sudden  recollection  came  over  Margaret. 

"  Oh !  Mary,"  said  she,  "  I  hope  you  have  been  cautious, 
and  not  left  any  of  that  dangerous  medicine,  where  mischief 
could  result  from  it.  I  intended  to  remind  you  of  it  before 
our  departure." 

"  Certainly — to  be  sure  I  took  especial  care  of  it,  I  have  it 
with  me  in  my  trunk,"  replied  Mary,  but  her  conscience  gave 
her  a  remorseful  twinge  as  she  uttered  the  white  lie,  for  she 
had  forgotten  it,  and  where  she  had  left  it,  she  could  not  re 
member.  As  Margaret  had  given  her  several  warnings,  she 
was  ashamed  to  acknowledge  her  negligence,  and  took  refuge 
in  the  shelter  she  had  too  often  successfully  sought.  Had  she 
anticipated  the  fatal  consequences  of  her  oblivion,  her  bridal 
felicity  would  have  been  converted  into  agony  and  despair. 
She  had  left  the  paper  containing  the  powder,  yet  undissolved, 
on  the  mantelpiece  of  her  chamber.  The  chambermaid  who 
arranged  the  room  after  her  departure,  seeing  it  and  supposing 
it  to  be  medicine,  put  it  in  the  box  which  Mrs.  Astor  devoted 
to  that  department,  in  the  midst  of  calomel,  saits,  antimony, 
&c.  It  was  folded  in  brown  paper,  like  the  rest,  and  there 
was  no  label  to  indicate  its  deadly  qualities.  Mrs.  St.  Henry 


168  THE   FATAL   COSMETIC. 

continued  the  guest  of  Mrs.  Astor,  for  her  indisposition  as 
sumed  a  more  serions  aspect,  and  it  was  impossible  to  remove 
her.  She  appeared  feverish  and  restless,  and  a  physician  was 
called  in  to  prescribe  for  her,  greatly  in  opposition  to  her  wishes. 
She  could  not  bear  to  acknowledge  herself  ill.  It  was  the  heat 
of  the  room  that  had  oppressed  her — a  transient  cold,  which 
would  soon  pass  away — she  would  not  long  trespass  on  Mrs. 
Astor's  hospitality.  The  doctor  was  not  much  skilled  in 
diseases  of  the  heart,  though  he  ranked  high  in  his  profession. 
His  grand  panacea  for  almost  all  diseases  was  calomel,  which 
he  recommended  to  his  patient,  as  the  most  efficient  and 
speediest  remedy.  She  received  the  prescription  with  a  very 
ill  grace,  declaring  she  had  never  tasted  of  any  in  her  life, 
and  had  a  horror  of  all  medicines.  Mrs.  Astor  said  she  had 
an  apothecary's  shop  at  command  in  her  closet,  and  that  she 
kept  doses  constantly  prepared  for  her  own  use.  After  the 
doctor's  departure,  Mrs.  St.  Henry  seemed  much  dejected,  and 
her  eyes  had  an  anxious,  inquiring  expression  as  they  turned 
on  Mrs.  Astor. 

"  You  say,"  said  she  to  her,  in  a  low  tone,  "  that  friends 
have  been  kind  in  their  inquiries  for  me?  Most  of  them  are 
strangers,  and  yet  I  thank  them." 

"  Mr.  Hall  has  called  more  than  once,"  replied  Mrs.  Astor } 
l(  he,  I  believe,  is  well  known  to  you." 

"  He  is  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  St.  Henry — "  I  wish  I  could 
Bee  him — but  it  cannot  be ;  no,  it  would  not  answer." 

Mrs.  Astor  longed  to  ask  the  nature  of  their  former  acquaint 
ance,  but  a  conviction  that  the  question  would  be  painful,  re 
strained  the  expression  of  her  curiosity. 

"  Would  you  not  like  to  send  for  some  of  your  friends  ?" 
inquired  Mrs.  Astor — "your  husband?  My  servants  shall 
be  at  your  disposal." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  answered  Mrs.  St.  Henry,  quickly — 
"  but  it  is  not  necessary — my  husband  is  too  infirm  to  travel, 
and  believing  me  well,  he  will  suffer  no  anxiety  on  my  account 
— I  think  I  shall  be  quite  well,  after  taking  your  sovereign 
medicine.  Give  it  me  now,  if  you  please,  while  I  am  in  a 
vein  of  compliance." 

She  turned,  with  so  lovely  a  smile,  and  extended  her  hand 
with  so  much  grace,  Mrs.  Astor  stood  a  moment,  thinking  what 
a  beautiful  picture  she  would  make ;  then  taking  the  lamp 
in  her  hand,  she  opened  her  closet,  and  took  down  the  medi 
cine  casket.  It  happened  that  the  first  paper  she  touched  waa 


THE   FATAL   COSMETIC.  169 

that  which  Mary  had  left,  and  which  the  servant  had  mingled 
with  the  others. 

"  Here  is  one  already  prepared,"  cried  she — "  I  always  keep 
them  readjr,  the  exact  number  of  grains  usually  given,  as  we 
often  want  it  suddenly  and  at  night." 

She  mixed  the  fatal  powder  with  some  delicious  jelly,  and 
holding  it  to  the  lips  of  her  patient,  said  with  a  cheerin 
stnile — "  Come,  it  has  no  disagreeable  taste  at  all." 

Mrs.  St.  Henry  gave  a  nervous  shudder,  but  took  it,  uncon 
scious  of  its  deadly  properties ;  and  Mrs.  Astor,  praising  her 
resolution,  seated  herself  in  an  easy  chair  by  the  bedside,  and 
began  to  read.  She  became  deeply  interested  in  her  book, 
though  she  occasionally  glanced  towards  her  patient  to  see  if 
she  slept.  She  had  placed  the  lamp  so  that  its  light  would 
not  shine  on  the  bed,  and  the  most  perfect  quietness  reigned 
in  the  apartment.  How  long  this  tranquillity  lasted  it  is  im 
possible  to  tell,  for  she  was  so  absorbed  in  her  book,  time 
passed  unheeded.  At  length  Mrs.  St.  Henry  began  to  moan, 
and  toss  her  arms  over  the  covering,  as  if  in  sudden  pain. 
Mrs.  Astor  leaned  over  her,  and  took  her  hand.  It  was  hot 
and  burning,  her  cheek  had  a  scarlet  flush  on  it,  and  when 
she  opened  her  eyes  they  had  a  wild  and  alarming  expres 
sion. 

"  Water,"  she  exclaimed,  leaning  on  her  elbow,  and  shading 
back  her  hair  hurriedly  from  her  brow — "  Give  me  water,  for 
I  die  of  thirst." 

"  I  dare  not,"  said  Mrs.  Astor,  terrified  by  her  manner — 
"  anything  but  that  to  quench  your  thirst." 

She  continued  still  more  frantically  to  call  for  water,  till 
Mrs.  Astor,  excessively  alarmed,  sent  for  the  doctor,  and  called 
in  other  attendants.  As  he  was  in  the  neighbourhood,  he 
came  immediately.  He  looked  aghast  at  the  situation  of  hia 
patient,  for  she  was  in  a  paroxysm  of  agony  at  his  entrance, 
and  his  experienced  eye  took  in  the  danger  of  the  case. 
"  What  have  you  given  her,  madam  ?"  said  he,  turning  to  Mrs 
Astor,  with  a  countenance  that  made  her  tremble. 
.  "  What  have  you  given  me  ?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  St.  Henry, 
grasping  her  wrist  with  frenzied  strength — "  You  have  killed 
me — it  was  poison — I  feel  it  in  my  heart  and  in  my  brain  I" 

Mrs.  Astor  uttered  a  scream,  and  snatched  up  the  paper 
which  had  fallen  on  the  carpet. 

"  Look  at  it,  doctor — it  was  calomel,  just  as  you  prescribed 
— what  else  could  it  be  !" 


170  THE   FATAL  COSMETIC. 

The  doctor  examined  the  paper — there  was  a  little  powder 
still  sticking  to  it. 

"  Good  heavens,  doctor/'  cried  Mrs.  Astor,  "  what  makes 
you  look  so  ? — what  is  it  ? — what  was  it  ?" 

"  Where  did  you  get  this  ?"  said  he,  sternly. 

"  At  the  apothecary's — I  took  it  from  that  chest — examine 
*t,  pray." 

The  doctor  turned  away  with  a  groan,  and  approached  his 
beautiful  patient,  now  gasping  and  convulsed.  He  applied 
the  most  powerful  antidotes,  but  without  effect. 

"  I  am  dying,"  she  cried,  "  I  am  dying— I  am  poisoned — 
but  oh,  doctor,  save  me — save  me — let  me  see  him,  if  I  must 
die — let  me  see  him  again;"  and  she  held  out  her  hands  im 
ploringly  to  Mrs.  Astor,  who  was  in  a  state  little  short  of  dis 
traction. 

"  Only  tell  me,  if  you  mean  Mr.  Hall." 

"  Who  should  I  mean  but  Augustus  ?"  she  cried.  "  Perhaps 
in  death  he  may  forgive  me." 

The  doctor  made  a  motion  that  her  request  should  be  com 
plied  with,  and  a  messenger  was  despatched. 

What  an  awful  scene  was  presented,  when  he  entered  that 
chamber  of  death  !  Was  that  the  idol  of  his  young  heart,  the 
morning  star  of  his  manhood ;  she,  who  lay  livid,  writhing  and 
raving  there  ?  Her  long,  dark  hair  hung  in  dishevelled  masses 
over  her  neck  and  arms,  her  large  black  eyes  were  fearfully 
dilated,  and  full  of  that  unutterable  agony  which  makes  the 
spirit  quail  before  the  might  of  human  suffering.  Cold  sweat- 
drops  gleamed  on  her  marble  brow,  and  her  hands  were  damp 
with  that  dew  which  no  morning  sunbeam  can  ever  exhale. 

"  Almighty  Father  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hall,  "  what  a  sight 
is  this  I" 

The  sound  of  that  voice  had  the  power  to  check  the  ravings 
of  delirium.  She  shrieked,  and  stretched  out  her  arms  towards 
him,  who  sunk  kneeling  by  the  bedside,  covering  his  face  with 
liis  hands,  to  shut  out  the  appalling  spectacle. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  cried,  in  hollow  and  altered  accents — • 
, '  Augustus,  you  are  terribly  avenged — I  loved  you,  even  when 
I  left  you  for  another.  Oh !  pray  for  me  to  that  great  and 
dreadful  G-od,  who  is  consuming  me,  to  have  mercy  on  me 
hereafter." 

He  did  pray,  but  it  was  in  spirit,  his  lips  could  not  articu 
late;  but  his  uplifted  hands  and  streaming  eyes  called  down 
pardon  and  peace  on  the  dying  penitent.  Tl  e  reason,  that 


THE   FATAL   COSMETIC.  171 

had  flashed  out  for  a  moment,  rekindled  by  memory  ana  pas 
sion,  was  now  gone  for  ever.  All  the  rest  was  but  the  striving 
of  mortal  pain,  the  rending  asunder  of  body  and  soul.  In 
a  short  time  all  was  over,  and  the  living  were  left  to  read  one 
of  the  most  tremendous  lessons  on  the  vanity  of  beauty,  and 
the  frailty  of  life,  mortality  could  offer  in  all  its  gloomy 
annals. 

"  This  is  no  place  for  you,  now,"  said  the  doctor,  taking 
Mr.  Hall's  arm,  and  drawing  him  into  another  apartment, 
where,  secure  from  intrusion,  he  could  be  alone  with  Grod  and 
his  own  heart.  There  was  another  duty  to  perform — to  in 
vestigate  the  mystery  that  involved  this  horrible  tragedy.  The 
apothecary  was  summoned,  who,  after  recovering  from  his  first 
consternation,  recollected  that  a  short  time  before,  he  had  sold 
a  quantity  of  corrosive  sublimate  to  a  little  black  girl,  accord 
ing  to  her  mistress's  orders.  The  servants  were  called  for 
examination,  and  Dinah  was  pointed  out  as  the  culprit — Dinah, 
the  imputed  destroyer  of  the  mirror,  whose  terror  was  now 
deemed  the  result  of  conscious  guilt.  Mrs.  Astor  vehemently 
protested  she  had  never  sent  her,  that  it  was  the  blackest  false 
hood  ;  and  Dinah,  though  she  told  the  whole  truth,  how  Mary 
had  forbid  her  telling  it  was  for  her,  and  she  merely  used  her 
mistress's  name  on  that  account,  gained  no  belief.  The  cham 
bermaid,  who  had  found  the  paper  and  put  it  in  the  chest, 
withheld  her  testimony,  fearing  she  might  be  implicated  in  the 
guilt.  Everything  tended  to  deepen  the  evidence  against  Diuah. 
The  affair  of  the  broken  looking-glass  was  revived.  She  had 
been  heard  to  say,  after  her  memorable  flagellation,  that  she 
wished  her  mistress  was  dead,  that  she  would  kill  her  if  she 
could ;  and  many  other  expressions,  the  result  of  a  smarting 
back  and  a  wounded  spirit,  were  brought  up  against  her.  It 
was  a  piteous  thing  to  see  the  fright,  and  hear  the  pleadings 
of  the  wretched  girl :  "  Oh  !  dotf't  send  me  to  jail — don't  hang 
me — send  for  Miss  Mary,"  she  repeated,  wringing  her  hands, 
and  rolling  her  eyes  like  a  poor  animal  whom  the  hunters  have 
at  bay.  But  to  jail  she  was  sent — for  who  could  doubt  her 
crime,  or  pity  her  after  witnessing  its  terrific  consequences  ? — 
a  damp,  dreary  prison-house,  where,  seated  on  a  pallet  of  straw, 
she  was  left  to  brood  day  after  day  over  her  accumulated 
wrongs,  hopeless  of  sympathy  or  redress.  Let  those  who  con 
sider  a  white  lie  a  venial  offence,  who  look  upon  deception  as 
necessary  to  the  happiness  and  harmony  of  society,  reflect  on 
the  consequences  of  Mary  Ellis's  moral  delinquency,  and 


172  THE   FATAL   COSMETIC. 

tremble  at  the  view.  She  had  not  done  more  than  a  thousand 
others  have  done,  and  are  daily  doing;  and  yet  what  was  the 
result?  The  soul  of  the  lovely,  the  erring,  and  the  unprepared 
had  been  sent  shuddering  into  eternity,  a  household  made 
wretched,  the  innocent  condemned,  a  neighbourhood  thrown 
into  consternation  and  gloom.  Had  Mary  confessed  her  negli 
gence  to  Margaret,  instead  of  telling  an  unnecessary  and  un- 
tempted  falsehood,  a  warning  message  could  have  then  been 
easily  sent  back,  and  the  wide-spread  ruin  prevented.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  a  white  lie)  they  are  all  black  as  the 
blackest  shades  of  midnight;  and  no  fuller  on  earth  can  whiten 
them. 

When  Mrs.  Astor  had  recovered  from  the  shock  of  these 
events  in  a  sufficient  degree,  she  wrote  to  Mary  a  detailed 
account,  begging  her  and  Margaret  to  return  immediately,  and 
cheer  the  home  which  now  seemed  so  desolate.  The  letter 
was  long  in  reaching  her,  for  the  travellers  were  taking  a  devious 
course,  and  could  leave  behind  them  no  precise  directions. 
Mary  was  in  one  of  her  gayest,  brightest  humours,  when  she 
received  the  epistle.  She  was  putting  on  so  ne  new  ornaments, 
which  Charles  had  presented  to  her,  and  h  3  was  looking  over 
her  shoulder  at  the  fair  image  reflected  in  the  glass,  whose 
brow  was  lighted  up  with  the  triumph  of  conscious  beauty. 

"  I  look  shockingly  ugly  to-day/'  said  she,  with  a  smile  that 
belied  her  words. 

"You  tell  stories  with  such  a  grace,"  replied  her  flattering 
husband,  "I  am  afraid  we  shall  be  in  love  with  falsehood." 

"  A  letter  from  our  dear  Mrs.  Astor ;  open  it,  Cl  tries,  while 
I  clasp  this  bracelet ;  and  read  it  aloud,  then  Mai  garet  and  I 
both  can  hear  it." 

Before  Charles  had  read  one  page,  Mary  sunk  down  at  his 
feet,  rending  the  air  with  hysterical  screams.  Her  husband, 
who  was  totally  unaware  of  the  terrible  agency  she  had  had  in 
the  affair,  raised  her  in  indescribable  alarm.  Her  own  wild 
expressions,  however,  revealed  the  truth,  which  Margaret's 
shivering  lips  confirmed. 

"  Oh  !  had  you  told  me  but  the  truth,"  cried  Margaret,  rais 
ing  her  prayerful  eyes  and  joined  hands  to  heaven — "how 
simple,  how  easy  it  had  been — Charles,  Charles,"  added  she, 
with  startling  energy,  "  praise  not  this  rash,  misguided  girl, 
for  the  grace  with  which  she  lies — I  will  not  recall  the  word. 
By  the  worth  of  your  own  soul  and  hers,  teach  her,  that  aa 
there  is  a  God  above,  he  requires  truth  in  the  inward  heart." 


THE   FATAL   COSMETIC.  1,8 

Charles  trembled  at  the  solemnity  of  the  adjuration ;  and 
conscience  told  him,  that  all  the  agonies  his  wife  suffered, 
and  all  the  remorse  which  was  yet  to  be  her  portion,  were  just. 
Margaret  sought  the  solitude  of  her  chamber,  and  there,  oa 
her  knees,  she  endeavoured  to  find  calmness.  The  image  of 
Mr.  Hall,  mourning  over  the  death-bed  of  her  once  so  madly 
loved,  the  witness  of  her  expiring  throes,  the  receiver  of  her 
last  repentant  sigh  rose,  between  her  and  her  Creator.  Then, 
that  radiant  face,  that  matchless  form,  which  had  so  lately 
excited  a  pang  of  envy,  even  in  her  pure  heart,  now  blasted 
by  consuming  poison,  and  mouldering  in  the  cold  grave ;  how 
awful  was  the  thought,  and  how  fearful  the  retribution  !  She, 
whose  vain  heart  had  by  falsehood  endangered  the  very  exist 
ence  of  another,  was  the  victim  of  the  very  vice  that  had 
blackened  her  own  spirit.  Yes  !  there  is  retribution  even  in 
this  world. 

Mary  returned,  but  how  changed  from  the  gay  and  bloom 
ing  bride !  Her  cheek  was  pale,  and  her  eye  heavy.  She 
hastened  to  repair  the  only  wrong  now  capable  of  anyrcmedy. 
The  prison  doors  of  poor  Dinah  were  thrown  open,  and 
her  innocence  declared :  but  could  the  long  and  lonely  days 
and  nights  spent  in  that  weary,  gloomy  abode  be  blotted 
out  ?  Could  the  pangs  of  cold,  shuddering  fear,  the  dream  of 
the  gallows,  the  rope,  the  hangman's  grasp  round  the  gurgling 
throat,  the  dark  coffin  seat,  the  scoffing  multitude,  be  forgotten  ? 
No  ! — Dinah's  spirit  was  broken,  for  though  her  skin  was 
black,  there  was  sensibility  and  delicacy  too  beneath  her  ebon 
colouring.  Could  Mary  bring  back  the  gladness  that  once  per 
vaded  the  dwelling  of  Mrs.  Astor?  Everything  there  was 
changed.  The  room  in  which  Mrs.  St.  Henry  died  was  closed, 
for  it  was  haunted  by  too  terrible  remembrances.  Bitterly 
did  Mary  mourn  over  the  grave  of  her  victim;  but  she  could 
not  recall  her  by  her  tears.  No  remorse  could  open  the  gates 
of  the  tomb,  or  reclothe  with  beauty  and  bloom  the  ruins  of 
life. 

Margaret,  the  true,  the  pure-hearted  and  upright  Margaret, 
was  not  destined,  like  Mary,  to  gather  the  thorns  and  briers 
of  existence.  Long  did  the  fragrance  of  Tier  roses  last,  for  she 
had  not  plucked  them  with  too  rash  a  hand.  She  and  Mr. 
Hall  again  met.  The  moral  sympathy  that  had  drawn  them 
togethec,  was  not  weakened  by  the  tragic  event  that  had  inter 
vened;  it  had  rather  strengthened  through  suffering  and  sor 
row.  Mr.  Hall  could  never  forget  the  death  scene  of  Laura 
112 


174 


THE   FATAL   COSMETIC. 


St.  Henry.  The  love  expressed  for  him  at  a  moment  when 
all  earthly  dissimulation  was  over  had  inexpressibly  affected 
him.  Her  unparalleled  sufferings  seemed  an  expiation  for  her 
broken  faith.  It  was  at  her  grave  that  he  and  Margaret  first 
met  after  their  sad  separation,  when  the  falling  shades  of 
evening  deepened  the  solemnity  of  the  scene.  Sorrow,  sym 
pathy,  devotion,  and  truth,  form  a  holy  groundwork  for  love; 
and  when  once  the  temple  is  raised  on  such  a  foundation,  the 
winds  and  waves  may  beat  against  it  in  vain.  Mr.  Hall  found 
by  his  own  experience,  that  the  bruised  heart  can  be  healed, 
for  Margaret's  hand  poured  oil  and  balm  on  its  wounds.  He 
could  repose  on  her  faith  as  firmly  as  on  the  rock  which  ages 
have  planted.  He  knew  that  she  loved  him,  and  felt  it  due 
to  her  happiness  as  well  as  his  own,  to  ask  her  to  be  the  com 
panion  of  his  pilgrimage.  If  they  looked  back  upon  the  clouds 
that  had  darkened  their  morning,  it  was  without  self-reproach, 
and  remembrance  gradually  lost  its  sting.  Who  will  say  she 
was  not  happier  than  Mary,  who  carried  in  her  bosom,  through 
life,  that  which  "biteth  like  a  serpent,  and  stingeth  like  ?,n 
adder?" 


THE 

ABYSSINIAN  NEOPHYTE. 


ADELLAN,  an  Abyssinian  youth,  approached  one  of  those 
consecrated  buildings,  which  crown  almost  every  hill  of  his 
native  country.  Before  entering,  he  drew  off  his  shoes,  and 
gave  them  in  charge  to  a  servant,  that  he  might  not  soil  the 
temple  of  the  Lord,  with  the  dust  of  the  valley ;  then  bend 
ing  down,  slowly  and  reverentially,  he  pressed  his  lips  to  the 
threshold,  performed  the  same  act  of  homage  to  each  post  of 
the  door,  then  passed  into  the  second  division  of  the  church, 
within  view  of  the  curtained  square,  answering  to  the  myste 
rious  holy  of  holies  in  the  Jewish  temple.  He  gazed  upon 
the  pictured  saints  that  adorned  the  walls,  long  and  earnestly, 
when,  kneeling  before  them,  he  repeated,  with  deep  solemnity, 
his  customary  prayers.  He  rose,  looked  towards  the  mystic 
veil,  which  no  hand  but  that  of  the  priest  was  permitted  to 
raise,  and  anticipated  with  inexplicable  emotions  the  time 
when,  invested  with  the  sacred  dignity  of  that  office,  he  might 
devote  himself  exclusively  to  Heaven.  From  early  childhood, 
Adellan  had  been  destined  to  the  priesthood.  His  first  years 
were  passed  mid  the  stormy  scenes  of  war,  for  his  father  was 
soldier,  fighting  those  bloody  battles,  with  which  the  provinc 
of  Tigre  had  been  more  than  once  laid  waste.  Then  followeu 
the  dreadful  discipline  of  famine,  for  the  destroying  locusts, 
the  scourge  of  the  country,  had  followed  up  the  desolation  of 
war,  and  year  succeeding  year,  gleaned  the  last  hope  of  man. 
The  parents  of  Adellan  fled  from  these  scenes  of  devastation, 
crossed  the  once  beautiful  and  fertile  banks  of  the  Tacazze, 
and  sought  refuge  in  the  ample  monastery  of  Walduba,  where 

(175) 


176  THE  ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE. 

a  brother  of  his  father  then  resided.  Here,  he  was  placed 
entirely  under  the  protection  of  his  uncle,  for  his  father, 
sickened  with  the  horrors  he  had  witnessed,  and  loathing  the 
ties  which  were  once  so  dear  to  him,  recrossed  his  native 
stream,  became  a  gloomy  monk  in  another  convent,  where, 
with  several  hundred  of  his  brethren,  he  soon  after  perished  a 
victim  to  those  barbarities,  which  had  robbed  him  of  all  that 
gave  value  to  life.  Adellan  had  never  known  the  joys  of 
childhood.  The  greenness  and  bloom  of  spring  had  been 
blotted  from  his  existence.  Famine  had  hollowed  his  boyish 
cheek,  and  fear  and  distrust  chilled  and  depressed  his  young 
heart.  After  entering  the  convent  of  Walduba,  where  all  his 
physical  wants  were  supplied,  the  roundness  and  elasticity  of 
health  were  restored  to  his  limbs,  but  his  cheek  was  kept 
pale  by  midnight  vigils,  and  long  and  painful  fastings.  The 
teacher,  whom  his  uncle  placed  over  him,  was  severe  and  ex 
acting.  He  gave  him  no  relaxation  by  day,  and  the  stars  of 
night  witnessed  his  laborious  tasks.  He  was  compelled  to 
commit  lessons  to  memory,  in  a  language  which  he  did  not 
then  understand,  a  drudgery  from  which  every  ardent  mind 
must  recoil.  Yet,  such  was  his  thirst  for  knowledge,  that  he 
found  a  pleasure,  even  in  this,  that  sweetened  his  toils.  All 
the  strains  of  the  devout  Psalmist  were  familiar  to  his  lips, 
but  they  were  in  an  unknown  tongue,  for  in  this  manner  are 
the  youth  of  those  benighted  regions  taught.  Often,  when 
gazing  on  the  magnificent  jewelry  of  a  tropical  sky,  shining 
down  on  the  darkness  and  solitude  of  night,  had  he  uncon 
sciously  repeated  the  words  of  the  royal  penitent  — "  The 
heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God.  The  firmament  showeth 
his  handy  work."  He  understood  noi  their  meaning,  but  the 
principle  of  immortality  was  striving  within  him,  and  every 
star  that  gemmed  the  violet  canopy,  seemed  to  him  eye-beams 
of  that  all-seeing  Divinity  he  then  darkly  adored. 

Adellan  left  the  enclosure  of  the  church,  and  lingered 
beneath  the  shade  of  the  cedars,  whose  trunks  supported  the 
•oof,  and  thus  formed  a  pleasant  colonnade  sheltered  from 
he  sun  and  the  rain.  Beautiful  was  the  prospect  that  here 
stretched  itself  around  him.  All  the  luxuriance  of  a  moun 
tainous  country,  constantly  bathed  with  the  dews  of  heaven, 
and  warmed  by  the  beams  of  a  vertical  sun,  was  richly  un 
folded.  Odoriferous  perfumes,  wafted  from  the  forest  trees, 
and  exhaled  from  the  roses,  jessamines,  and  wild  blossoms, 
with  which  the  fields  were  covered,  scented  the  gale.  Borno 


THE  ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE.  177 

from  afar,  the  fragrance  of  Judea's  balm  mingled  with  the 
incense  of  the  flowers  and  the  richer  breath  of  the  myrrh.  A 
cool  stream  murmured  near,  where  those  who  came  up  to 
worship,  were  accustomed  to  perform  their  ablutions  and 
purifying  rites,  in  conformance  with  the  ancient  Levitical 
law.  Wherever  Adellan  turned  his  eyes,  he  beheld  some 
object  associated  with  the  ceremonies  of  his  austere  religion. 
In  that  consecrated  stream  he  had  bathed,  he  had  made  an 
altar  beneath  every  spreading  tree,  and  every  rock  had  wit 
nessed  his  prostrations.  He  thought  of  the  unwearied  nature 
of  his  devotions,  and  pride  began  to  swell  his  heart.  He 
knew  nothing  of  that  meek  and  lowly  spirit,  that  humiliation 
of  soul,  which  marks  the  followers  of  a  crucified  Redeemer. 
He  had  been  taught  to  believe  that  salvation  was  to  be  found 
in  the  observance  of  outward  forms,  but  never  had  been  led 
to  purify  the  inner  temple  so  as  to  make  it  a  meet  residence 
for  a  holy  God. 

Near  the  close  of  the  day,  he  again  walked  forth,  meditating 
on  his  contemplated  journey  to  Jerusalem,  the  holy  city,  where 
he  was  not  only  to  receive  the  remission  of  his  own  sins,  but 
even  for  seven  generations  yet  unborn,  according  to  the  su 
perstitious  belief  of  his  ancestors.  He  was  passing  a  low, 
thatched  dwelling,  so  lost  in  his  own  meditations,  as  scarcely 
to  be  aware  of  its  vicinity,  when  a  strain  of  low,  sweet  music, 
rose  like  a  stream  of  "  rich  distilled  perfumes."  Woman's 
softer  accents  mingled  with  a  voice  of  manly  melody  and 
strength ;  and  as  the  blending  strains  stole  by  his  ear,  ho 
paused,  convinced  that  the  music  he  heard  was  an  act  of 
adoration  to  God,  though  he  understood  not  the  language  in 
which  it  was  uttered.  The  door  of  the  cabin  was  open,  and 
he  had  a  full  view  of  the  group  near  the  entrance.  A  man, 
dressed  in  a  foreign  costume,  whose  prevailing  colour  was 
black,  sat  just  within  the  shade  of  the  cedars  that  sheltered 
the  roof.  Adellan  immediately  recognised  the  pale  face  of  the 
European,  and  an  instinctive  feeling  of  dislike  and  suspicion 
urged  him  to  turn  away.  There  was  something,  however,  in 
the  countenance  of  the  stranger  that  solicited  and  obtained 
more  than  a  passing  glance.  There  was  beauty  in  the  calm, 
thoughtful  features,  the  high  marble  brow,  the  mild  devotional 
dark  eye,  and  the  soft  masses  of  sable  heir  that  fell  somewhat 
neglected  over  his  lofty  temples.  There  was  a  tranquillity,  a 
peace,  an  elevation  diffused  over  that  pallid  face,  which  was 
reflected  back  upon  the  heart  of  the  beholder :  a  kind  of  moon- 


178  THE   ABYSSINIAN    NEOPHYTE. 

light  brightness,  communicating  its  own  peculiar  sweetness 
and  quietude  to  every  object  it  shone  upon.  Seated  near  him, 
and  leaning  over  the  arm  of  his  chair,  was  a  female,  whose 
slight  delicate  figure,  and  dazzlingly  fair  complexion,  gave  her 
a  supernatural  appearance  to  the  unaccustomed  eye  of  the 
dark  Abyssinian.  Her  drooping  attitude  and  fragile  frame 
appealed  at  once  to  sympathy  and  protection,  while  her  placid 
eyes,  alternately  lifted  to  heaven  and  turned  towards  him  on 
whose  arm  she  leaned,  were  expressive  not  only  of  meekness 
and  submission,  but  even  of  holy  rapture.  A  third  figure 
belonged  to  thJs  interesting  group  :  that  of  an  infant  girl, 
about  eighteen  months  old,  who,  seated  on  a  straw  matting,  at 
the  feet  of  her  parents,  raised  her  cherub  head  as  if  in  the  act 
of  listening,  and  tossed  back  her  flaxen  ringlets  with  the  play 
ful  grace  of  infancy. 

Adellan  had  heard  that  a  Christian  missionary  was  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Adorva,  and  he  doubted  not  that  he  now 
beheld  one  whom  he  had  been  taught  to  believe  his  most 
dangerous  enemy.  Unwilling  to  remain  longer  in  his  vicinity, 
he  was  about  to  pass  on,  when  the  stranger  arose  and  addressed 
him  in  the  language  of  his  country.  Surprised  at  the  saluta 
tion,  and  charmed,  in  spite  of  himself,  with  the  mild  courtesy 
of  his  accents,  Adellan  was  constrained  to  linger.  The  fair- 
haired  lady  greeted  him  with  a  benign  smile,  and  the  little 
child  clapped  its  hands  as  if  pleased  with  the  novelty  and 
grace  of  his  appearance ;  for  though  the  hue  of  the  olive  dyed 
his  cheek,  his  features  presented  the  classic  lineaments  of 
manly  beauty,  and  though  the  long  folds  of  his  white  robe 
veiled  the  outlines  of  his  figure,  he  was  formed  in  the  finest 
model  of  European  symmetry.  The  missionary  spoke  to  him 
of  his  country,  of  the  blandness  of  the  climate,  the  magnifi 
cence  of  the  trees,  the  fragrance  of  the  air,  till  Adellan  forgot 
his  distrust,  and  answered  him  with  frankness  and  interest. 
Following  the  dictates  of  his  own  ardent  curiosity,  he  ques 
tioned  the  missionary  with  regard  to  his  name,  his  native 
country,  and  his  object  in  coming  to  his  own  far  land.  He 

learned  that  his  name  was  M ,  that  he  came  from  the 

banks  of  the  Rhine  to  the  borders  of  the  Nile,  and,  following 
its  branches,  had  found  a  resting-place  riear  the  waters  of  tho 
beautiful  Tacazze. 

"  And  why  do  you  come  to  this  land  of  strangers  ?"  asked 
fche  abrupt  Abyssinian. 

"I  came  as  un  humble  servant  of  my  divine  Master/'  replied 


THE  ABYSSINIAN  NEOPHYTE.  179 

the  missionary,  meekly;  "as  a  messenger  of  'glad  tidings  of 
great  joy/  to  all  who  will  receive  me,  and  as  a  friend  and 
brother,  even  to  those  who  may  persecute  and  revile  me." 

"  What  tidings  can  you  bring  MS,"  said  Adellan,  haughtily, 
"  that  our  priests  and  teachers  can  not  impart  to  us  ?" 

"  I  bring  my  credentials  with  me,"  answered  Mr.  M , 

and  taking  a  Testament,  translated  into  the  Amharic  language, 
he  offered  it  to  Adellan ;  but  he  shrunk  back  with  horror,  and 
refused  to  open  it. 

"I  do  not  wish  for  your  books,"  said  he;  "keep  them. 
We  are  satisfied  with  our  own.  Look  at  our  churches.  They 
stand  on  every  hill,  far  as  your  eye  can  reach.  See  that  stream 
that  winds  near  your  dwelling.  There  we  wash  away  the 
pollution  of  our  souls.  I  fast  by  day,  I  watch  by  night.  The 
saints  hear  my  prayers,  and  the  stars  bear  witness  to  my 
penances.  I  am  going  to  the  holy  city,  where  I  shall  obtain 
remission  for  all  my  sins,  and  those  of  generations  yet  unborn. 
I  shall  return  holy  and  happy." 

Mr.  M sighed,  while  the  youth  rapidly  repeated  his 

claims  to  holiness  and  heaven. 

"  You  believe  that  God  is  a  spirit,"  said  he;  "and  the  wor 
ship  that  is  acceptable  in  his  eyes,  must  be  spiritual  also.  In 
vain  is  the  nightly  vigil  and  the  daily  fast,  unless  the  soul  is 
humbled  in  his  eyes.  We  may  kneel  till  the  rock  is  worn 
by  our  prostrations,  and  torture  the  flesh  till  every  nerve  is 
wakened  to  agony,  but  we  can  no  more  work  out  our  own 
salvation  by  such  means,  than  our  feeble  hands  can  create  a 
new  heaven  and  a  new  earth,  or  our  mortal  breath  animate  the 
dust  beneath  our  feet,  with  the  spirit  of  the  living  God." 

The  missionary  spoke  with  warmth.  His  wife  laid  her 
gentle  hand  on  his  arm.  There  was  something  in  the  glance 
of  the  young  Abyssinian  that  alarmed  her.  But  the  spirit 
of  the  martyr  was  kindled  within  him,  and  would  not  be 
quenched. 

"  See,"  said  he,  directing  the  eye  of  the  youth  towards  the 
neighbouring  hills,  now  clothed  in  the  purple  drapery  of  sun 
set  ;  "  as  sure  as  those  hills  now  stand,  the  banner  of  the  cross 
shall  float  from  their  summits,  and  tell  to  the  winds  of  heaven 
the  triumphs  of  the  Kedeemer's  kingdom.  Ethiopia  shall 
stretch  out  her  sable  hands  unto  God,  and  the  farthest  isles 
of  the  ocean  behold  the  glory  of  his  salvation." 

Adellan  looked  into  the  glowing  face  of  the  missionary,  re 
membered  the  cold  and  gloomy  countenance  of  his  religious 


180  THE   ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE. 

teacher,  and  wondered  at  the  contrast.  But  his  prejudices 
were  unshaken,  and  his  pride  rose  up  in  rebellion  against  the 
man  who  esteemed  him  an  idolater. 

"Come  to  us  again/'  said  the  missionary,  in  a  subdued 
tone,  as  Adellan  turned  to  depart;  "let  us  compare  our  dif 
ferent  creeds,  by  the  light  of  reason  and  revelation,  and  see 

vhat  will  be  the  result." 
<'  Come  to  us  again,"  said  the  lady,  in  Adellan's  native 

ongue ;  and  her  soft,  low  voice  sounded  sweet  in  his  ears,  as 
the  fancied  accents  of  the  virgin  mother.  That  night,  as  he 
eat  in  his  lonely  chamber,  at  the  convent,  conning  his  task  in 
the  stillness  of  the  midnight  hour,  the  solemn  words  of  the 
missionary,  his  inspired  countenance,  the  ethereal  form  of  his 
wife,  and  the  cherub  face  of  that  fair  child,  kept  floating  in 
bis  memory.  He  was  angry  with  himself  at  the  influence 
they  exercised.  He  resolved  to  avoid  his  path,  and  to  hasten 
his  departure  to  Jerusalem,  where  he  could  be  not  only  secure 
from  his  arts,  but  from  the  legions  of  the  powers  of  darkness. 


Months  passed  away.  The  humble  cabin  of  the  missionary 
was  gradually  thronged  with  those  who  came  from  curiosity, 
or  better  motives,  to  hear  the  words  of  one  who  came  from 
such  a  far  country.  His  pious  heart  rejoiced  in  the  hope, 
that  the  shadows  of  idolatry  which  darkened  their  religion 
would  melt  awaj  before  the  healing  beams  of  the  Sun  of  Right 
eousness.  But  he  looked  in  vain  for  the  stately  figure  of  the 
young  Adellan.  His  spirit  yearned  after  the  youth,  and  when 
ever  he  bent  his  knees  at  the  altar  of  his  God,  he  prayed  for 
his  conversion,  with  a  kind  of  holy  confidence  that  his  prayer 
would  be  answered.  At  length  he  once  more  presented  him- 
eelf  before  them,  but  so  changed  they  could  scarcely  recognise 
his  former  lineaments.  His  face  was  haggard  and  emaciated, 
his  hair  had  lost  its  raven  brightness,  and  his  garments  were 
worn  and  soiled  with  dust.  He  scarcely  answered  the  anxious  | 

inquiries  of  Mr.  M ,  but  sinking  into  a  seat,  and  covering  -, 

his  face  with  his  hands,  large  tears,  gathering  faster  and  faster, 
glided  through  his  fingers,  and  rained  upon  his  knees.  Mary,  ' 
the  sympathizing  wife  of  the  missionary,  wept  in  unison ;  but 
she  did  not  limit  her  sympathy  to  tears,  she  gave  him  water 
to  wash,  and  food  to  eat,  and  it  was  not  until  he  rested  his 
weary  limbs,  that  they  sought  to  learn  the  history  of  his  suf 
ferings.  It  would  be  tedious  to  detail  them  at  length,  though 


THE   ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE.  181 

be  nad  indeed  experienced  "  a  sad  variety  of  woe."  He  had 
commenced  his  journey  under  the  guidance  and  protection  of 
a  man  in  whose  honour  he  placed  unlimited  confidence,  had 
been  deceived  and  betrayed,  sold  as  a  slave,  and,  though  he 
had  escaped  this  degradation,  he  had  been  exposed  to  famine 
and  nakedness,  and  the  sword. 

"  I  have  been  deserted  by  man,"  said  Adellan ;  "  the  saints 
have  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  my  prayers ;  I  have  come  to  you  to 
learn  if  there  is  a  power  in  your  Christianity  to  heal  a  wounded 
spirit,  and  to  bind  up  a  broken  heart." 

The  missionary  raised  his  eyes  in  gratitude  to  Heaven. 

"  The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  (rod  is  upon  me,"  cried  he,  repeat 
ing  the  language  of  the  sublimest  of  the  prophets :  "  because 
the  Lord  hath  anointed  me  to  preach  good  tidings  unto  the 
meek ;  he  hath  sent  me  to  bind  up  the  broken-hearted,  to  pro 
claim  liberty  to  the  captive,  and  the  opening  of  the  prison  to 
them  that  are  bound." 

"  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  for  they  shall  be  comforted," 
repeated  Mary,  softly ;  and  never  were  promises  of  mercy 
pronounced  in  a  sweeter  voice.  Afflictions  had  humbled  the 
proud  spirit  of  Adellan.  But  his  was  not  the  humility  of  the 
Christian.  It  was  rather  a  gloomy  misanthropy,  that  made 
him  turn  in  loathing  from  all  he  had  once  valued,  and  to  dootbt 
the  efficacy  of  those  forms  and  penances,  in  which  he  had 
wasted  the  bloom  of  his  youth,  and  the  morning  strength  of 
his  manhood.  But  he  no  longer  rejected  the  proffered  kind 
ness  of  his  new  friends.  He  made  his  home  beneath  their 
roof.  The  Testament  he  had  formerly  refused,  he  now  grate 
fully  received,  and  studied  it  with  all  the  characteristic  ardour 
of  his  mind.  Persevering  as  he  was  zealous,  as  patient  in 
investigation  as  he  was  quick  of  apprehension,  he  compared 
text  with  text,  and  evidence  with  evidence,  till  the  prejudices 
of  education  yielded  to  the  irresistible  force  of  conviction. 
When  once  his  understanding  had  received  a  doctrine,  he 
cherished  it  as  a  sacred  and  eternal  truth,  immutable  as  the 
«  vord  of  God,  and  immortal  as  his  own  soul. 

He  now  went  down  into  the  hitherto  untravelled  chambers 
of  his  own  heart,  and,  throwing  into  their  darkest  recesses 
the  full  blaze  of  revelation,  he  shuddered  to  find  them  infested 
by  inmates  more  deadly  than  the  serpent  of  the  Nile.  Pas 
sions,  of  whose  existence  he  had  been  unconscious,  rose  up 
from  their  hiding  places,  and  endeavoured  to  wrap  him  in 
their  giant  folds.  Long  and  fearful  was  the  struggle,  but 


182  THE   ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE. 

Adellan  opposed  to  their  power  the  shield  of  Faith  and  tho 
sword  of  the  Spirit,  and  at  last  came  off  conqueror,  and  laid 
down  his  spoils  at  the  foot  of  the  cross.  The  missionary  wept 
over  him,  "tears  such  as  angels  shed."  "Now,"  exclaimed 
he,  "  I  am  rewarded  for  all  my  privations,  and  my  hitherto 
unavailing  toils.  Oh !  Adellan,  now  the  friend  and  brother 
of  my  soul,  I  feel  something  like  the  power  of  prophecy  come 
over  me,  when  I  look  forward  to  your  future  destiny.  The 
time  will  shortly  come,  when  you  will  stand  in  the  high  places 
of  the  land,  and  shake  down  the  strong  holds  of  ancient  idolatry 
and  sin.  The  temples,  so  long  desecrated  by  adoration  of  sense 
less  images,  shall  be  dedicated  to  the  worship  of  the  living  God. 
Sinners,  who  so  long  have  sought  salvation  in  the  purifying 
waters  of  the  stream,  shall  turn  to  the  precious  fountain  of  the 
Redeemer's  blood.  Oh  !  glorious,  life-giving  prospect !  They 
who  refuse  to  listen  to  the  pale-faced  stranger,  will  hearken  to 
the  accents  of  their  native  hills.  Rejoice,  my  beloved  Mary  ! 
though  I  may  be  forced  to  bear  back  that  fading  frame  of 
yours  to  a  more  congenial  clime,  our  Saviour  will  not  be  left 
without  a  witness,  to  attest  his  glory,  and  confirm  his  power." 

To  fulfil  this  prophecy  became  the  ruling  desire  of  Adellan's 
life.  He  longed  to  liberate  his  deluded  countrymen  from  the 
thraldom  of  that  superstition  to  which  he  himself  had  served 
such  a  long  and  gloomy  apprenticeship.  He  longed,  too,  for 
some  opportunity  of  showing  his  gratitude  to  his  new  friends. 
But  there  is  no  need  of  signal  occasions  to  show  what  is  pass 
ing  in  the  heart.  His  was  of  a  transparent  texture,  and  its 
emotions  were  visible  as  the  pebbles  that  gleam  through  the 
clear  waters  of  the  Tacazze.  The  beautiful  child  of  the  mis 
sionary  was  the  object  of  his  tenderest  love.  He  would  carry 
it  in  his  arms  for  hours,  through  the  wild  groves  that  sur 
rounded  their  dwelling,  and,  gathering  for  it  the  choicest  pro 
ductions  of  nature,  delight  in  its  smiles  and  infantine  caresses. 
Sometimes,  as  he  gazed  on  the  soft  azure  of  its  eyes,  and  felt 
its  golden  ringlets  playing  on  his  cheek,  he  would  clasp  it  to 
his  bosom  and  exclaim,  "  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

Mary  idolized  her  child,  and  Adellan's  great  tenderness  for 
it,  inexpressibly  endeared  him  to  her  heart.  She  loved  to  see 
the  fair  face  of  her  infant  leaning  against  the  dark  cheek  of 
Adellan,  and  its  flaxen  locks  mingling  with  his  jetty  hair. 
One  evening,  as  it  feU  asleep  in  his  arms,  he  was  alarmed  at 
the  scarlet  brightness  of  its  complexion,  and  the  burning  heat 
3f  its  skiu.  He  carried  it  to  its  mother.  It  was  the  last  time 


THE  ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE.  183 

the  cherub  ever  slumbered  on  his  bosom.  It  never  again 
lifted  up  its  head,  but  faded  away  like  a  flower  scorched  by  a 
noonday  sun. 

Day  and  night  Adellan  knelt  by  the  couch  of  the  dying 
infant,  and  prayed  in  agony  for  its  life ;  yet  even  in  the  in- 
ensity  of  his  anguish,  he  felt  how  sublime  was  the  resignation 
of  its  parents.  They  wept,  but  no  murmur  escaped  their  lips. 
They  prayed,  but  every  prayer  ended  with  the  submissive 
ejaculation  of  their  Saviour,  "Not  our  will,  O  Father!  but 
thine  be  done."  And  when  the  sweet,  wistful  eyes  were  at 
last  closed  in  death,  and  the  waxen  limbs  grew  stiff  and  cold, 
when  Adellan  could  not  restrain  the  bitterness  of  his  grief, 
still  the  mourners  bowed  ther  heads  and  cried,  "  The  Lord 
gave,  the  Lord  taketh  away — blessed  be  the  name  of  the 
Lord." 

Adellan  had  witnessed  the  stormy  sorrow  of  his  country 
women,  whose  custom  it  is  to  rend  their  hair,  and  lacerate 
their  faces  with  their  nails,  and  grovel,  shrieking,  in  the  dust ; 
but  never  had  his  heart  been  so  touched  as  by  the  resignation 
of  this  Christian  mother.  But,  though  she  murmured  not, 
she  was  stricken  by  the  blow,  and  her  fragile  frame  trembled 
beneath  the  shock.  Her  husband  felt  that  she  leaned  more 
heavily  on  his  arm,  and  though  she  smiled  upon  him  as  wont, 
the  smile  was  so  sad,  it  often  brought  tears  into  his  eyes.  At 
length  she  fell  sick,  and  the  missionary  saw  her  laid  upon  the 
surne  bed  on  which  his  infant  had  died.  Now,  indeed,  it 
might  be  said  that  the  hand  of  God  was  on  him.  She,  the 
bride  of  his  youth,  the  wife  of  his  fondest  affections,  who  had 
given  up  all  the  luxuries  of  wealth,  and  the  tender  indulgences 
of  her  father's  home,  for  the  love  of  him  and  her  God ;  who 
had  followed  him  not  only  with  meekness,  but  joy,  to  those 
benighted  regions,  that  she  might  share  and  sweeten  his 
labours,  and  join  to  his,  her  prayers  and  her  efforts  for  the 
extension  of  the  Redeemer's  kingdom ;  she,  whose  presence 
Lad  been  able  to  transform  their  present  lowly  and  lonely 
dwelling  into  a  place  lovely  as  the  Garden  of  Eden — could  he 
gee  her  taken  from  him,  and  repeat,  from  his  heart,  as  he  had 
done  over  the  grave  of  his  only  child,  "  Father,  thy  will  be 
done  ?" 

Bitter  was  the  conflict,  but  the  watchful  ear  of  Adellan 
again  heard  the  same  low,  submissive  accents,  which  were  so 
lately  breathed  over  his  lost  darling.  Here,  too,  Adellan 
acted  a  brother's  part ;  but  female  care  was  requisite,  and  thib 


184  THE   ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE. 

his  watchful  tenderness  supplied.  He  left  them  for  a  wt  /ta, 
and  returned  with  a  young  maiden,  whose  olive  coinplexwr, 
graceful  figure,  and  long  braided  locks,  declared  her  of  Abys 
sinian  birth.  Her  voice  was  gentle,  and  her  step  light,  when 
she  approached  the  bed  of  the  suiferer.  Ozora,  for  such  was 
the  name  of  the  maiden,  was  a  treasure  in  the  house  of  sick 
ness.  Mary's  languid  eye  followed  her  movements,  and  often 
brightened  with  pleasure,  while  receiving  her  sympathizing 
attentions.  In  her  hours  of  delirious  agony,  she  would  hold 
her  hand,  and  call  her  sister  in  the  most  endearing  tone,  and 
ask  her  how  she  had  found  her  in  that  land  of  strangers. 
Sometimes  she  would  talk  of  the  home  of  her  childhood,  and 
imagine  she  heard  the  green  leaves  of  her  native  bowers  rus 
tling  in  the  gale.  Then  she  thought  she  was  wandering  through 
the  groves  of  Paradise,  and  heard  the  angel  voice  of  her  child 
singing  amid  the  flowers. 

Ozora  was  familiar  with  all  the  medicinal  arts  and  cooling 
drinks  of  her  country.  She  possessed  not  only  native  gentle 
ness,  but  skill  and  experience  as  a  nurse.  She  was  an  orphan, 
and  the  death-bed  of  her  mother  had  witnessed  her  filial  ten 
derness  and  care.  She  was  an  idolater,  but  she  loved  Adellan, 
and  for  his  sake  would  gladly  embrace  the  faith  of  the  Euro 
pean.  Adellan  was  actuated  by  a  twofold  motive  in  bringing 
her  to  the  sick-bed  of  Mary ;  one  was,  that  she  might  exer 
cise  a  healing  influence  on  the  invalid,  and  another,  that  she 
might  witness  the  triumphs  of  Christian  faith  over  disease, 
sorrow,  and  death.  But  Mary  was  not  doomed  to  make  her 
grave  in  the  stranger's  land.  The  fever  left  her  burning  veins, 
and  her  mind  recovered  its  wonted  clearness.  She  was  able 
to  rise  from  her  couch,  and  sit  in  the  door  of  the  cabin,  and 
feel  the  balmy  air  flowing  over  her  pallid  brow. 

She  sat  thus  one  evening,  supported  by  the  arm  of  her  hus 
band,  in  the  soft  light  of  the  sinking  sunbeams.  Adellan  and 
her  gentle  nurse  were  seated  near.  The  eyes  of  all  were  simul 
taneously  turned  to  a  small  green  mound,  beneath  the  shade 
of  a  spreading  cedar,  and  they  thought  of  the  fairy  form  that 
had  so  often  sported  around  them  in  the  twilight  hour. 

"  Oh  !  not  there,"  cried  Mary,  raising  her  glistening  eyes 
from  that  lonely  grave  to  heaven — "  Not  there  must  we  seek 
our  child.  Even  now  doth  her  glorified  spirit  behold  the  face 
of  our  Father  in  heaven  She  is  folded  in  the  arms  of  Him, 
who,  when  on  earth,  took  little  children  to  his  bosom  and 
Messed  them  And  I,  my  beloved  husband — a  little  while 


THE  ABYSSINIAN  NEOPHYTE.  185 

and  ye  shall  see  my  face  no  more.  Though  the  Almighty  haa 
raised  me  from  that  couch  of  pain,  there  is  something  tells 
me,"  continued  she,  laying  her  hand  on  her  heart,  "  that  my 
days  are  numbered;  and  when  my  ashes  sleep  beside  that 
grassy  bed,  mourn  not  for  me,  but  think  that  I  have  gone  to 
my  Father  and  your  Father,  to  my  God  and  your  God." 
Then,  leaning  her  head  on  her  husband's  shoulder,  she  added, 
in  a  low  trembling  voice — "  to  my  child  and  your  child." 

It  was  long  before  Mr.  M spoke ;  at  length  he  turned 

to  Adellan,  and  addressed  him  in  the  Amharic  language : 
"  My  brother !  it  must  be  that  I  leave  you.  The  air  of  her 
native  climes  may  revive  this  drooping  flower.  I  will  bear 
her  back  to  her  own  home,  and,  if  God  wills  it,  I  will  return 
and  finish  the  work  he  has  destined  me  to  do." 

Mary  clasped  her  hands  with  irrepressible  rapture  as  ho 
uttered  these  words ;  then,  as  if  reproaching  herself  for  the 
momentary  selfishness,  she  exclaimed,  "And  leave  the  poor 
Abyssinians  !" 

"  I  will  leave  them  with  Adellan,"  he  answered,  "  whom  I 
firmly  believe  God  has  chosen,  to  declare  his  unsearchable 
riches  to  this  portion  of  the  Gentile  world.  The  seed  that 
has  been  sown  has  taken  root,  and  the  sacred  plant  will  spring 
up  and  increAse,  till  the  birds  of  the  air  nestle  in  its  branches, 
and  the  beasts  of  the  forest  lie  down  beneath  its  shade.  Adel 
lan,  does  your  faith  waver  ?" 

"  Never,"  answered  the  youth,  with  energy,  "  but  the  arm 
of  my  brother  is  weak.  Let  me  go  with  him  on  his  homeward 
journey,  and  help  him  to  support  the  being  he  loves.  I  shall 
gather  wisdom  from  his  lips,  and  knowledge  from  the  glimpse 
of  a  Christian  land.  Then  shall  I  be  more  worthy  to  minister 
to  my  brethren  the  word  of  life." 

A  sudden  thought  flashed  into  the  mind  of  the  missionary. 
"  And  would  you,  Adellan,"  asked  he,  "  would  you  indeed 
wish  to  visit  our  land,  and  gain  instruction  in  our  institutions 
of  learning,  that  you  might  return  to  enrich  your  countr 
with  the  best  treasures  of  our  own  ?  You  are  very  young, 
and  might  be  spared  awhile  now,  that  you  may  be  fitted  for 
more  extensive  usefulness  hereafter." 

Adellan's  ardent  eye  told  more  expressively  than  words 
could  utter,  the  joy  which  filled  his  soul  at  this  proposition. 
v'  Too  happy  to  follow  you,"  cried  he ;  "  how  can  I  be  suffi 
ciently  grateful  for  an  added  blessing  ?" 

Ozora,  who  had  listened  to  the  conversation,  held  in  her 


186  THE   ABYSSINIAN    NEOPHYTE. 

own  language,  with  intense  interest,  here  turned  her  eyes  upon 
Adellan,  with  a  look  of  piercing  reproach,  and  suddenly  rising, 
left  the  cabin. 

"  Poor  girl  I"  exclaimed  Mary,  as  Adellan,  with  a  saddened 
countenance,  followed  the  steps  of  Ozora;  "how  tenderly  has 
she  nursed  me,  and  what  is  the  recompense  she  meets  ?  We 
•ire  about  to  deprive  her  of  the  light  that  gladdens  her  exist- 
nce.  She  has  not  yet  anchored  her  hopes  on  the  Rock  of 
Ages,  and  where  else  can  the  human  heart  find  refuge,  when 
the  wild  surges  of  passion  sweep  over  it !" 

"  Adellan  is  in  the  hands  of  an  all-wise  and  all-controlling 
power,"  answered  the  missionary,  thoughtfully ;  "  the  tears 
of  Ozora  may  be  necessary  to  prove  the  strength  of  his  resolu 
tion  ;  if  so,  they  will  not  fall  in  vain." 

A  few  weeks  after,  everything  being  in  readiness  for  the 
departure  of  the  missionary  and  his  family,  he  bade  farewell 
to  the  Abyssinians,  who  crowded  round  his  door  to  hear  hia 
parting  words.  He  took  them  with  him  to  the  hillside,  and, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  odoriferous  trees,  and  the  covering  of 
the  heavens,  he  addressed  them  with  a  solemnity  and  fervour 
adapted  to  the  august  temple  tha't  surrounded  him.  His  deep 
and  sweet-toned  voice  rolled  through  the  leafy  colonnades  and 
verdant  aisles,  like  the  rich  notes  of  an  organ  in  some  ancient 
cathedral.  The  Amharic  language,  soft  and  musical  in  itself, 
derived  new  melody  from  the  lips  of  Mr.  M . 

"And  now,"  added  he,  in  conclusion,  "  I  consign  you 
to  the  guardianship  of  a  gracious  and  long-suffering  God. 
Forget  not  the  words  I  have  just  delivered  unto  you,  for 
remember  they  will  rise  up  in  judgment  against  you  in  that 
day  when  we  shall  meet  face  to  face  before  the  bar  of  eternal 
justice.  This  day  has  the  Gospel  been  preached  in  your  ears. 
Every  tree  that  waves  its  boughs  over  your  heads,  every  flower 
that  embalms  the  atmosphere,  and  every  stream  that  flows 
down  into  the  valley,  will  bear  witness  that  the  hallowed  name 
of  the  Redeemer  has  been  breathed  in  these  shades,  and  pro 
mises  of  mercy  so  sweet  that  angels  stoop  down  from  heaven 
to  listen  to  the  strains  that  have  been  offered,  free,  free  as  the 
very  air  you  inhale.  I  go,  my  friends,  but  should  I  never 
return,  this  place  will  be  for  ever  precious  to  my  remembrance. 
It  contains  the  ashes  of  my  child.  That  child  was  yielded  up 
in  faith  to  its  Maker,  and  the  spot  where  it  sleeps  is,  there 
fore,  holy  ground.  Will  ye  not  guard  it  from  the  foot  of  the 
stranger,  and  the  wild  beast  of  the  mountain  ?  Let  the  flower 


THE   ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE.  187 

of  the  hills  bloom  ungathered  upon  it,  and  the  dew  of  heaven 
rest  untrodden  on  its  turf,  till  he,  who  is  the  resurrection  and 
the  life,  shall  appear,  and  the  grave  give  back  its  trust." 

He  paused,  overpowered  by  the  strength  of  his  emotions, 
and  the  sobs  of  many  of  his  auditors  attested  the  sympathy  of 
these  untutored  children  of  nature.  He  came  down  from  the 
elevated  position  on  which  he  had  been  standing,  and  taking 
the  hand  of  Adellan,  led  him  to  the  place  he  had  just  occu 
pied.  The  people  welcomed  him  with  shouts,  for  it  was  the 
first  time  he  had  presented  himself  in  p'ublic,  to  declare  the 
change  in  his  religious  creed,  and  such  was  the  character  he 
had  previously  obtained  for  sanctity  and  devotion,  they  looked 
upon  him  with  reverence,  notwithstanding  his  youth.  He 
spoke  at  first  with  diffidence  and  agitation,  but  gathering  con 
fidence  as  he  proceeded,  he  boldly  and  eloquently  set  forth 
and  defended  the  faith  he  had  embraced.  That  young,  enthu 
siastic  preacher  would  have  been  a  novel  spectacle  to  an  Euro 
pean  audience,  as  well  as  that  wild,  promiscuous  assembly. 
His  long,  white  robes,  girded  about  his  waist,  according  to  the 
custom  of  his  country,  his  black,  floating  hair,  large,  lustrous 
eyes,  and  dark  but  now  glowing  complexion,  formed  a  striking 
contrast  with  the  sable  garments,  pallid  hue,  and  subdued 
expression  of  the  European  minister.  They  interrupted  him 
with  tumultuous  shouts,  and  when  he  spoke  of  his  intended 
departure  and  attempted  to  bid  them  farewell,  their  excite 
ment  became  so  great,  he  was  compelled  to  pause,  for  his  voice 
strove  in  vain  to  lift  itself  above  the  mingled  sounds  of  grief 
and  indignation. 

"  I  leave  you,  my  brethren,"  cried  he,  at  length,  "  only  to 
return  more  worthy  to  minister  unto  you.  My  brother  will 
open  my  path  to  the  temples  of  religion  and  knowledge.  He 
needs  my  helping  arm  in  bearing  his  sick  through  the  lonely 
desert  and  over  the  deep  sea — what  do  I  not  owe  him  ?  I 
was  a  stranger  and  he  took  me  in ;  I  was  naked  and  he  clothed 
me ;  hungry  and  he  fed  me,  thirsty  and  he  gave  me  driuk ; 
and  more  than  all,  he  has  given  me  to  eat  the  bread  of  heaven, 
and  water  to  drink  from  the  wells  of  salvation.  Oh !  aext  to 
God,  he  is  my  best  friend  and  yours." 

The  shades  of  night  began  to  fall,  before  the  excited  crowd 

were  all  ^dispersed,  and  Mr.  M ,  and  Adellan  were  left  in 

tranquillity.  Mary  had  listened  to  the  multitudinous  sounds, 
^ith  extreme  agitation.  She  reproached  herself  for  allowing 
ner  husband  to  withdraw  from  the  scene  of  his  missionary 


188  THE   ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE. 

labours  out  of  tenderness  for  her.  She  thought  it  would  ho 
better  for  her  to  die  and  be  laid  by  her  infant's  grave,  than 
the  awakened  minds  of  these  half  Pagan,  half  Jewish  people, 
be  allowed  to  relapse  into  their  ancient  idolatries.  When  the 
clods  of  the  valley  were  once  laid  upon  her  breast,  her  slumbers 
would  not  be  less  sweet  because  they  were  of  the  dust  of  a 
foreign  land. 

Thus  she  reasoned  with  her  husband,  who,  feeling  that  her 
life  was  a  sacred  trust  committed  to  his  care,  and  that  it  was 
his  first  duty  to  guar*d  it  from  danger,  was  not  moved  from  his 
purpose  by  her  tearful  entreaties.  They  were  to  depart  on  the 
following  morning. 

That  night  Adellan  sat  with  Ozora  by  the  side  of  a  fountain, 
that  shone  like  a  bed  of  liquid  silver  in  the  rising  moonbeams. 
Nature  always  looks  lovely  in  the  moonlight,  but  it  seemed  to 
the  imagination  of  Adellan  he  had  never  seen  her  clothed  with 
such  resplendent  lustre  as  at  this  moment,  when  every  star 
shone  with  a  farewell  ray,  and  every  bough,  as  it  sparkled  in 
the  radiance,  whispered  a  melancholy  adieu. 

Ozora  sat  with  her  face  bent  over  the  fountain,  which  lately 
had  often  been  fed  by  her  tears.  Her  hair,  which  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  braid  with  oi-iental  care,  hung  dishevelled 
over  her  shoulders.  Her  whole  appearance  presented  the 
abandonment  of  despair.  Almost  every  night  since  his  con 
templated  departure,  had  Adellan  followed  her  to  that  spot, 
and  mingled  the  holiest  teachings  of  religion  with  the  purest 
vows  of  love.  He  had  long  loved  Ozora,  but  he  had  struggled 
with  the  passion,  as  opposed  to  that  dedication  of  himself  to 
heaven,  he  had  contemplated  in  the  gloom  of  his  conventual 
life.  Now  enlightened  by  the  example  of  the  missionary, 
and  the  evangelical  principles  he  had  embraced,  he  believed 
Christianity  sanctioned  and  hallowed  the  natural  affections  of 
the  heart.  He  no  longer  tried  to  conquer  his  love,  but  to 
make  it  subservient  to  higher  duties. 

Mary,  grieved  at  the  sorrow  of  Ozora,  would  have  gladly 
taken  her  with  her,  but  Adellan  feared  her  influence.  He 
knew  he  would  be  unable  to  devote  himself  so  entirely  to  the 
eternal  truths  he  was  one  day  to  teach  to  others,  if  those  soft 
and  loving  eyes  were  always  looking  into  the  depths  of  his 
heart,  to  discover  their  own  image  there.  He  resisted  the 

proposition,  and  Mr.  M applauded  the  heroic  resolution. 

But  now  Adellan  was  no  hero;  he  was  a  young,  impassioned 


THE   ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE.  189 

lover,  and  the  bitterness  of  parting  pressed  heavily  on  hia 
soul. 

"  Promise  me,  Ozora,"  repeated  he,  "that  when  I  am  gone, 
you  will  never  return  to  the  idolatrous  worship  you  have 
abjured.  Promise  me,  that  you  will  never  kneel  to  any  but 
the  one,  invisible  God,  and  that  this  blessed  book,  which  I 
give  you,  as  a  parting  pledge,  shall  be  as  a  lamp  to  your  feet 
and  a  light  to  your  path.  Oh!  should  you  forget  the  faith 
you  have  vowed  to  embrace,  and  should  I,  when  I  come  back 
to  my  country,  find  you  an  alien  from  God,  I  should  mourn, 
I  should  weep  tears  of  blood  over  your  fall;  but  you  could 
never  be  the  wife  of  Adellan.  The  friend  of  his  bosom  must 
be  a  Christian." 

"  I  cannot  be  a  Christian,"  sobbed  the  disconsolate  girlr 
"  for  I  love  you  better  than  God  himself,  and  I  am  still  an 
idolater.  Oh !  Adellan,  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  ten  thou 
sand  worlds,  and  yet  you  are  going  to  leave  me." 

The  grief  she  had  struggled  to  restrain,  here  burst,  its 
bounds.  Like  the  unchastened  daughters  of  those  ardent 
climes,  she  gave  way  to  the  wildest  paroxysms  of  agony. 
She  threw  herself  on  the  ground,  tore  out  her  long  raven 
locks,  and  startled  the  silence  of  night  by  her  wild,  hysterical 
screams.  Adellan  in  vain  endeavoured  to  soothe  and  restore 
her  to  reason ;  when,  finding  his  caresses  and  sympathy  worse 
than  unavailing,  he  knelt  down  by  her  side,  and  lifting  his 
hands  above  her  head,  prayed  to  the  Almighty  to  forgive  her 
for  her  sacrilegious  love.  As  the  stormy  waves  are  said  to 
subside,  when  the  wing  of  the  halcyon  passes  over  them,  so 
were  the  tempestuous  emotions  that  raged  in  the  bosom  of  this 
unhappy  maiden,  lulled  into  calmness  by  the  holy  breath  of 
prayer.  As  Adellan  continued  his  deep  and  fervent  aspira 
tions,  a  sense  of  the  omnipresence,  the  omnipotence  and  holi 
ness  of  God  stole  over  her.  She  raised  her  weeping  eyes,  and 
as  the  moonbeams  glittered  on  her  tears,  they  seemed  but  the 
glances  of  his  all-seeing  eye.  As  the  wind  sighed  through 
the  branches,  she  felt  as  if  His  breath  were  passing  by  her, 
in  mercy  and  in  love.  Filled  with  melting  and  penitential 
feelings,  she  lifted  herself  on  her  knees,  by  the  side  of  Adel 
lan,  and  softly  whispered  a  response  to  every  supplication  for 
pardon. 

"  Oh  !  Father,  I  thank  thee  for  this  hour  !"  exclaimed 
Adellan,  overpowered  by  so  unlooked-for  a  change,  and  throw 
ing  his  arms  around  her,  he  wept  from  alternate  ecstasy  a»d 
113 


190  THE   ABYSSINIAN    NEOPHYTE. 

sorrow.  Let  not  the  feelings  of  Adcllan  be  deemed  too  refinrd 
and  exalted  for  the  region  in  which  he  dwelt.  From  early 
boyhood  he  had  been  kept  apart  from  the  companionship  of 
the  ruder  throng ;  his  adolescence  had  been  passed  in  the 
shades  of  a  convent,  in  study,  and  deep  observation,  and  more 
than  all  he  was  a  Christian ;  and  wherever  Christianity  sheds 
its  pure  and  purifying  light,  it  imparts  an  elevation,  a  sub 
limity  to  the  character  and  the  language,  which  princes,  un 
taught  of  God,  may  vainly  emulate. 

The  morning  sunbeam  lighted  the  pilgrims  on  their  way. 
The  plight  and  feeble  frame  of  Mary  was  borne  on  a  litter  by 
four  sturdy  Ethiopians.  Seven  or  eight  more  accompanied  to 

rest  them,  when  weary,  and  to  bear  Mr.  M in  the  same 

manner,  when  overcome  by  fatigue,  for  it  was  a  long  distance 
to  Massowak.  Their  journey  led  tern  through  a  desert  wilder 
ness,  where  they  might  vainly  sigh  for  the  shadow  of  the  rock, 
or  the  murmur  of  the  stream.  Adellan  walked  in  silence  by 
the  side  of  his  friend.  His  thoughts  were  with  the  weeping 
Ozora,  and  of  the  parting  hour  by  the  banks  of  the  moon 
lighted  fountain.  Mary  remembered  the  grave  of  her  infant, 
and  wept,  as  she  caught  a  last  glimpse  of  the  hill  where  she 
had  dwelt.  The  spirit  of  the  missionary  was  lingering  with 
the  beings  for  whose  salvation  he  had  laboured,  and  he  made 
a  solemu  covenant  with  his  own  soul,  that  he  would  return 
with  Adellan,  if  God  spared  his  life,  and  leave  his  Mary  under 
the  shelter  of  the  paternal  roof,  if  she  indeed  lived  to  behold 

it.     On  the  third  day,  Mr.  M was  overcome  with  such 

excessive  languor,  he  was  compelled  to  be  borne  constantly  by 
the  side  of  his  wife,  unable  to  direct,  or  to  exercise  any  con 
trolling  influence  on  his  followers.  Adellan  alone,  unwearied 
and  energetic,  presided  over  all,  encouraged,  sustained,  and 
soothed.  He  assisted  the  bearers  in  upholding  their  burdens, 
and  whenever  he  put  his  shoulder  to  the  litter,  the  invalids 
immediately  felt  with  what  gentleness  and  steadiness  they 
were  supported.  When  they  reached  the  desert,  and  camels 
were  provided  for  the  travellers,  they  were  still  often  obliged 
to  exchange  their  backs  for  the  litter,  unable  long  to  endure 
the  fatigue.  Adellan  was  still  unwilling  to  intrust  his  friends 
to  any  guidance  but  his  own.  He  travelled  day  after  day 
through  the  burning  sands,  animating  by  his  example  *he  ex 
hausted  slaves,  and  personally  administering  to  the  wants  of 
the  sufferers.  When  they  paused  for  rest  or  refreshment, 
before  he  carried  the  cup  to  his  own  parched  lips,  he  brought 


THE   ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE.  191 

it  to  theirs.  It  was  his  hand  that  bathed  with  water  their 
feverish  brows,  and  drew  the  curtain  around  them  at  night, 
when  slumber  shed  its  dews  upon  their  eyelids.  And  often, 
in  the  stillness  of  the  midnight,  when  the  tired  bearers  and 
weary  camels  rested  and  slept  after  their  toils,  the  voice  of 
Adellan  rose  sweet  and  solemn  in  the  loneliness  of  the  desert, 
holding  communion  with  the  high  and  holy  One  who  in 
habited  eternity. 

There  was  a  boy  among  the  negro  attendants,  who  was  the 
object  of  Adellan's  peculiar  kindness.  He  seemed  feeble  and 
incapable  of  bearing  long  fatigue,  and  at  the  commencement 
of  the  journey  Adellan  urged  him  to  stay  behind,  but  he  ex 
pressed  so  strong  a  desire  to  follow  the  good  missionary,  he 
could  not  refuse  his  request.  He  wore  his  face  muffled  in  a 
handkerchief,  on  account  of  some  natural  deformity,  a  circum 
stance  which  exposed  him  to  the  derision  of  his  fellow  slaves, 
but  which  only  excited  the  sympathy  of  the  compassionate 
Adellan.  Often,  when  the  boy,  panting  and  exhausted,  would 
throw  himself  for  breath  on  the  hot  sand,  Adellan  placed  him 
on  his  own  camel  and  compelled  him  to  ride.  And  when 
they  rested  at  night,  and  Adellan  thought  every  one  but  him 
self  wrapped  in  slumber,  he  would  steal  towards  him,  and  ask 
him  to  tell  him  something  out  of  God's  book,  that  he,  Adellan, 
had  been  reading.  It  was  a  delightful  task  to  Adellan  to  pour 
the  light  of  divine  truth  into  the  dark  mind  of  this  poor  negro 
boy,  and  every  moment  he  could  spare  from  his  friends  was 
devoted  to  his  instruction. 

One  evening,  after  a  day  of  unusual  toil  and  exertion,  they 
reached  one  of  those  verdant  spots,  called  the  Oases  of  the 
desert ;  and  sweet  to  the  weary  travellers  was  the  fragrance 
and  coolness  of  this  green  resting-place.  They  made  their 
tent  under  the  boughs  of  the  flowering  acacia,  whose  pure 
white  blossoms  diffused  their  odours  even  over  the  sandy  waste 
they, had  passed.  The  date  tree,  too,  was  blooming  luxuriantly 
there,  and,  more  delicious  than  all,  the  waters  of  a  fountain, 
gushing  out  of  the  rock,  reminded  them  how  God  had  pro 
vided  for  the  wants  of  his  ancient  people  in  the  wilderness. 
The  missionary  and  his  wife  were  able  to  lift  their  languid 
heads,  and  drink  in  the  freshness  of  the  balmy  atmosphere 
All  seemed  invigorated  and  revived  but  the  negro  boy,  who 
lay  drooping  on  the  ground,  and  refused  the  nourishment 
which  the  others  eagerly  shared. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  boy  ?"  asked  Adellan,  kindly, 


-• 


192  THE   ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE. 

and  taking  his  hand  in  his,  was  struck  by  its  burning  heat. 
"  You  are  ill,"  continued  he,  "  and  have  not  complained." 
He  made  a  pallet  for  him  under  the  trees,  and  they  brought 
him  a  medicinal  draught.  Seeing  him  sink  after  a  while  in 
a  deep  sleep,  Adellan's  anxiety  abated.  But  about  midnight 
he  was  awakened  by  the  meanings  of  the  boy,  and  bending 
over  him,  laid  his  hand  on  his  forehead.  The  sufferer  opened 
his  eyes,  and  gasped,  "  Water,  or  I  die !"  Adellan  ran  to  the 
fountain,  and  brought  the  water  immediately  to  his  lips. 
Then  kneeling  down,  he  removed  the  muffling  folds  of  the 
handkerchief  from  his  face,  and  unbound  the  same  from  his 
head,  that  he  might  bathe  his  temples  in  the  cooling  stream. 
The  moon  shone  as  clearly  and  resplendently  as  when  *  it 
beamed  on  Ozora's  parting  tears,  and  lighted  up  with  an  in 
tense  radiance  the  features  of  the  apparently  expiring  negro. 
Adellan  was  astonished  that  no  disfiguring  traces  appeared  on 
the  regular  outline  of  his  youthful  face ;  his  hair,  too,  instead 
of  the  woolly  locks  of  the  Ethiopian,  was  of  shining  length 
and  profusion,  and  as  Adellan's  hand  bathed  his  brow  with 
water,  he  discovered  beneath  the  jetty  dye  of  his  complexion 
the  olive  skin  of  the  Abyssinian. 

"  Ozora !"  exclaimed  Adellan,  throwing  himself  in  agony 
by  her  side ;  "  Ozora,  you  have  followed  me,  but  to  die  !" 

"  Forgive  me,  Adellan,"  cried  she,  faintly ;  "  it  was  death 
to  live  without  you ;  but  oh !  I  have  found  everlasting  life, 
in  dying  at  your  feet.  Your  prayers  have  been  heard  in  the 
desert,  and  I  die  in  the  faith  and  the  hope  of  a  Christian." 

Adellan's  fearful  cry  had  roused  the  slumberers  of  the  tent. 

Mr.  M ,  and  Mary,  herself,  gathering  strength  from  terror, 

drew  near  the  spot.  What  was  her  astonishment  to  behold 
her  beloved  nurse,  supported  in  the  arms  of  Adellan,  and 
seemingly  breathing  out  her  last  sighs !  Every  restorative 
was  applied,  but  in  vain.  The  blood  was  literally  burning  up 
in  her  veins. 

This  last  fatal  proof  of  her  love  and  constancy  wrung  the 
heart  of  Adellan.  He  remembered  how  often  he  had  seen 
her  slender  arms  bearing  the  litter,  her  feet  blistering  in  the 
sands ;  and  when  he  knew,  too,  that  it  was  for  the  love  of  him 
she  had  done  this,  he  felt  as  if  he  would  willingly  lay  down 
his  life  for  hers.  But  when  he  saw  her  mind,  clear  and  un- 
dimmed  by  the  mists  of  disease,  bearing  its  spontaneous  testi 
mony  to  the  truth  of  that  religion  which  reserves  its  most 


THE  ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE.  193 

glorious  triumphs  for  the  dying  hour,  he  was  filled  with  re 
joicing  emotions. 

"  My  Saviour  found  me  in  the  wilderness,"  cried  she,  "while 
listening  to  the  prayers  of  Adellan.  His  head  was  filled  with 
dew,  and  his  locks  were  heavy  with  the  drops  of  night.  Oh, 
Adellan,  there  is  a  love  stronger  than  that  which  has  bound 
my  soul  to  yours.  In  the  strength  of  that  love  I  am  willing 
o  resign  you.  I  feel  there  is  forgiveness  even  for  me." 

She  paused,  and  lifting  her  eyes  to  heaven,  with  a  serene 
expression,  folded  her  hands  on  her  bosom.  The  missionary 
saw  that  her  soul  was  about  to  take  its  flight,  and  kneeling 
over  her,  his  feeble  voice  rose  in  prayer  and  adoration.  While 
the  holy  incense  was  ascending  up  to  heaven,  her  spirit  winged 
its  upward  way,  so  peacefully  and  silently,  that  Adellau  still 
clasped  her  cold  hand,  unconscious  that  he  was  clinging  to 
dust  and  ashes. 

They  made  her  grave  beneath  the  acacia,  whose  blossoms 
were  strewed  over  her  dying  couch.  They  placed  a  rude  stone 
at  the  head,  and  the  hand  of  Adellan  carved  upon  it  this 
simple,  but  sublime  inscription,  "  I  know  that  my  Redeemer 
liveth."  The  name  of  Ozora,  on  the  opposite  side,  was  all 
the  memorial  left  in  the  desert,  of  her  whose  memory  was  iu,- 
mortal  in  the  bosom  of  her  friends.  But  there  was  a  grandcui 
in  that  lonely  grave  which  no  marble  monument  could  exalt, 
It  was  the  grave  of  a  Christian  : 

"  And  angels  with  their  silver  Tvings  o'ershade 
The  ground  now  sacred  by  her  relics  made." 

It  would  be  a  weary  task  to  follow  the  travellers  through 
every  step  of  their  journey.  Adellan  still  continued  his  un 
wearied  offices  to  his  grateful  and  now  convalescent  friends, 
but  his  spirit  mourned  for  his  lost  Ozora.  When,  however, 
he  set  foot  on  Christian  land,  he  felt  something  of  the  rapture 
that  swelled  the  breast  of  Columbus  on  the  discovery  of  a  new 
world.  It  was,  indeed,  a  new  world  to  him,  and  almost 
realized  his  dreams  of  Paradise. 

The  friends  of  Mary  and  her  husband  welcomed  him,  as 
the  guardian  angel  who  had  watched  over  their  lives  in  the 
desert,  at  the  hazard  of  his  own ;  and  Christians  pressed  for 
ward  to  open  their  hearts  and  their  homes  to  their  Abyssinian 
brother.  Mary,  once  more  surrounded  by  the  loved  scenes 
of  her  youth,  and  all  the  appliances  of  kindred  love,  and  all 


194  THE   ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE. 

the  medicinal  bairns  the  healing  art  can  furnish,  slowly  re 
covered  her  former  strength.  All  that  female  gratitude  and 
tenderness  could  do,  she  exerted  to  interest  and  enliven  the 
feelings  of  Adellan,  when,  after  each  day  of  intense  study,  he 
returned  to  their  domestic  circle.  The  rapidity  with  which 
he  acquired  the  German  language  was  extraordinary.  He 
found  it,  however,  only  a  key,  opening  to  him  treasures  of 
unknown  value.  Mr.  M feared  the  effects  of  bis  exces 
sive  application,  and  endeavoured  to  draw  him  from  his  books 
and  studies.  He  led  him  abroad  amongst  the  works  of  nature, 
and  the  wonders  of  art,  and  tried  to  engage  him  in  the  athletic 
exercises  the  youth  of  the  country  delighted  in. 

Whatever  Adellan  undertook  he  performed  with  an  ardour 
which  no  obstacles  could  damp,  no  difficulties  subdue.  Know 
ledge,  purified  by  religion,  was  now  the  object  of  his  exist 
ence  ;  and,  while  it  was  flowing  in  upon  his  mind,  from  such 
various  sources,  finding,  instead  of  its  capacities  being  filled, 
that  they  were  constantly  enlarging  and  multiplying,  and  the 
fountains,  though  overflowing,  still  undrained  :  and  knowing 
too,  that  it  was  only  for  a  short  time  that  his  spirit  could 
drink  in  these  immortal  influences,  and  that  through  them  he 
was  to  fertilize  and  refresh,  hereafter,  the  waste  places  of  his 
country,  he  considered  every  moment  devoted  to  relaxation 
alone,  as  something  robbed  from  eternity. 

One  day,  Adellan  accompanied  a  number  of  young  men 
belonging  to  the  institution  in  which  he  was  placed,  in  an  ex 
cursion  for  the  collection  of  minerals.  Their  path  led  them 
through  the  wildest  aud  most  luxuriant  country,  through 
scenes  where  nature  rioted  in  all  its  virgin  bloom ;  yet,  where 
the  eye  glancing  around,  could  discern  the  gilding  traces  of 
art,  the  triumphs  of  man's  creating  hand.  Adellan,  who  be 
held  in  every  object,  whether  of  nature  or  of  art,  the  mani 
festation  of  God's  glory,  became  lost  in  a  trance  of  ecstasy. 
He  wandered  from  his  companions.  He  knelt  down  amid  the 
rocks,  upon  the  green  turf,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  streams. 
In  every  place  he  found  an  altar,  and  consecrated  it  with  the 
incense  of  prayer  and  of  praise.  The  shades  of  night  fell 
around  him,  before  he  was  conscious  that  the  sun  had  declined. 
The  dews  fell  heavy  on  his  temples,  that  still  throbbed  with 
the  heat  and  the  exertions  of  the  day.  He  returned  chilled 
and  exhausted.  The  smile  of  rapture  yet  lingered  on  his  lips, 
bat  the  damps  of  death  had  descended  with  the  dews  of  night, 
aiid  from  taut  h.;ur  consumption  commenced  its  slow  but 


THE   ABYSSINIAN   NEOPHYTE.  195 

certain  progress.  When  his  friends  became  aware  of  his 
d ringer,  they  sought  by  every  possible  means  to  ward  off  the 

fatal  blow.  Mr.  M induced  him  to  travel,  that  he  might 

wean  him  from  his  too  sedentary  habits.  He  carried  him 
with  him,  through  the  magnificent  valleys  of  Switzerland, 
those  valleys,  embosomed  in  hills,  on  whose  white  and  glitter 
ing  summits  Adellan  imagined  he  could  see  the  visible  foot 
prints  of  the  Deity.  "  Up  to  the  hills,"  he  exclaimed,  with 
the  sweet  singer  of  Israel,  in  a  kind  of  holy  rapture,  "  up  to 
the  hills  do  I  lift  mine  eyes,  from  whence  conieth  my  help." 
When  returning,  they  lingered  on  the  lovely  banks  of  the 
Rhine,  his  devout  mind,  imbued  with  sacred  lore,  recalled 
"  the  green  fields  and  still  waters,"  where  the  Shepherd  of 
Israel  gathered  his  flock. 

The  languid  frame  of  Adellan  seemed  to  have  gathered 
strength,  and  his  friends  rejoiced  in  their  reviving  hopes;  but 
"He  who  seeth  not  as  man  seeth,"  had  sent  forth  his  messenger 
to  call  him  to  his  heavenly  home.  Gentle  was  the  summons, 
but  Adellan  knew  the  voice  of  his  divine  Master,  and  prepared 
to  obey.  One  night,  as  he  reclined  in  his  easy  chair,  and  Mr. 

M was  seated  near,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  towards 

him,  with  a  bright  and  earnest  glance :  "  My  brother,"  said 
he,  "I  can  now  say  from  my  heart,  the  will  of  God  be  done. 
It  was  hard  to  give  up  my  beloved  Abyssinians,  but  I  leave 
them  in  the  hands  of  One  who  is  strong  to  deliver,  and  mighty 
to  save.  You,  too,  will  return,  when  you  have  laid  this  wasted 
frame  in  its  clay-cold  bed." 

"  I  made  a  vow  unto  my  God,"  answered  Mr.  M ,  "  that 

I  would  see  them  again,  and  that  vow  shall  not  be  broken. 
When  they  ask  me  the  parting  words  of  Adellan,  tell  me  what 
I  shall  utter." 

"  Tell  them,"  exclaimed  Adellan,  raising  himself  up,  with 
an  energy  that  was  startling,  and  in  a  voice  surprisingly  clear, 
while  the  glow  of  sensibility  mingled  with  the  hectic  fires  that 
burned  upon  his  cheek ;  "  tell  them  that  the  only  reflection 
that  planted  a  thorn  in  my  dying  pillow,  was  the  sorrow  I  felt 
that  I  was  not  permitted  to  declare  to  them  once  more,  the 
eternal  truths  of  the  Gospel.  Tell  them,  with  the  solemnities 
of  death  gathering  around  me,  in  the  near  prospect  of  judg 
ment  and  eternity,  I  declare  my  triumphant  faith  in  that 
religion  your  lips  revealed  unto  me,  that  religion  which  was 
sealed  by  the  blood  of  Jesus,  and  attested  by  the  Spirit  of 
Almighty  God ;  and  say,  too,  that  had  I  ten  thousand  lives, 


196  THE   ABYSSINIAN    NEOPHYTE. 

and  for  every  life  ten  thousand  years  to  live,  I  should  deem 
them  all  too  short  to  devote  to  the  glory  of  God,  and  the  ser 
vice  of  my  Redeemer." 

He  sunk  back  exhausted  in  his  chair,  and  continued,  in  a 
lower  voice,  "  You  will  travel  once  more  through  the  desert, 
but  the  hand  of  Adellan  will  no  longer  minister  to  the  friend 
•  he  loves.  Remember  him  when  you  pass  the  grave  of  Ozora, 
and  hallow  it  once  more  with  the  breath  of  prayer.  She  died 
for  love  of  me,  but  she  is  gone  to  him  who  loved  her  as  man 
never  loved.  Her  spirit  awaits  my  coming." 

The  last  tear  that  ever  dimmed  the  eye  of  Adellan  here  fell 
to  the  memory  of  Ozora.  It  seemed  a  parting  tribute  to  the 
world  be  was  about  to  leave.  His  future  hours  were  gilded 
by  anticipations  of  the  happiness  of  heaven,  and  by  visions  of 
glory  too  bright,  too  holy  for  description.  He  died  in  the 
arms  of  the  missionary,  while  the  hand  of  Mary  wiped  from 
his  brow  the  dews  of  dissolution.  Their  united  tears  em 
balmed  the  body  of  one,  who,  had  he  lived,  would  have  been 
a  burning  and  a  shining  light,  in  the  midst  of  the  dark  places 
of  the  earth;  one,  who  combined  in  his  character,  notwith 
standing  his  youth  and  his  country,  the  humility  of  the  Pub 
lican,  the  ardour  of  Peter,  the  love  of  John,  and  the  faith  and 
zeal  of  the  great  Apostle  of  the  Gentiles.  Perhaps  it  should 
rather  be  said,  with  the  reverence  due  to  these  holy  evangelists 
and  saints,  that  a  large  portion  of  their  divine  attribute?  ani 
mated  the  spirit  of  the  Abyssinian  Neophyte. 


THE 

VILLAGE   ANTHEM. 


"  WHAT  is  that  bell  ringing  for  ?"  asked  Villeneuve  of  tbo 
waiter,  who  was  leaving  the  room. 

"  For  church,"  was  the  reply. 

"  For  church  !  Oh  !  is  it  Sunday  ?  I  had  forgotten  it.  I 
did  not  think  there  was  a  church  in  this  little  village." 

'•'  Yes,  indeed,"  answered  the  boy,  his  village  pride  taking 
the  alarm,  "  and  a  very  handsome  one,  too.  Just  look  out  at 
that  window,  sir.  Do  you  see  that  tall,  white  steeple,  behind 
those  big  trees  there  ?  That  is  the  church,  and  I  know  there 
is  not  a  better  preacher  in  the  whole  world  than  Parson  Bland- 
ford.  He  was  never  pestered  for  a  word  yet,  and  his  voice 
makes  one  feel  so  warm  and  tender  about  the  heart,  it  does 
one  good  to  hear  him." 

Villeneuve  cast  a  languid  glance  through  the  window,  from 
the  sofa  on  which  he  was  reclining,  thinking  that  Parson 
Blandford  was  very  probably  some  old  hum-drum,  puritanical 
preacher,  whose  nasal  twang  was  considered  melodious  by  the 
vulgar  ears  which  were  accustomed  to  listen  to  him.  Dull  as 
his  present  position  was,  he  was  resolved  to  keep  it,  rathe 
than  inflict  upon  himself  such  an  intolerable  bore.  The  boy, 
who  had  mounted  his  hobby,  continued,  regardless  of  the  un 
propitious  countenance  of  his  auditor. 

"  Then  there  is  Miss  Grace  Blandford,  his  daughter,  plays 
so  beautifully  on  the  organ  !  You  never  heard  such  music  in 
your  life.  When  she  sits  behind  the  red  curtains,  and  you 
can't  see  anything  but  the  edge  of  her  white  skirt  below,  1 

(197) 


11)8  THE   VILLAGE   ANTHEM. 

can't  help  thinking  there's  an  angel  hid  there;  and  wT  en  sho 
comes  down  and  takes  her  father's  arm,  to  walk  out  of  ovurch, 
she  looks  like  an  angel,  sure  enough." 

Villeneuve's  countenance  brightened.  Allowing  for  .ill  tha 
hyperbole  of  ignorance,  there  were  two  positive  thing.'  which 
were  agreeable  in  themselves — music  and  a  young  maidc  t.  He 
ose  from  the  sofa,  threw  aside  his  dressing-gown,  cal.'wd  for 
is  coat  and  hat,  and  commanded  the  delighted  boy  to  direct 
nim  to  the  church,  the  nearest  way.  His  guide,  pn.ad  of 
ushering  in  such  a  handsome  and  aristocratic-looking  stiaiiger, 
conducted  him  to  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  seats  in  the 
broad  aisle,  in  full  view  of  the  pulpit  and  the  orchestva,  and 
Villeneuve's  first  glance  was  towards  the  red  curtains,  which 
•were  drawn  so  close,  not  even  a  glimpse  of  white  was  granted 
to  the  beholder.  He  smiled  at  his  own  curiosity.  Very  likely 
this  angel  of  the  village  boy  was  a  great  red-faced,  hard-handed 
country  girl,  who  had  been  taught  imperfectly  to  thrum  the 
keys  of  an  instrument,  and  consequently  transformed  by  rustic 
simplicity  into  a  being  of  superior  order.  No  matter,  any 
kind  of  excitement  was  better  than  the  ennui  from  which  he 
had  been  aroused.  A  low,  sweet,  trembling  prelude  sf>,le  on 
his  car.  "  Surely,"  thought  he,  "  no  vulgar  fingers  press 
those  keys — that  is  the  key-note  of  true  harmony."  He  lis 
tened,  the  sound  swelled,  deepened,  rolled  through  the  arch 
of  the  building,  and  sank  again  with  such  a  melting  cadence, 
the  tears  involuntarily  sprang  into  his  eyes.  Ashamed  of  his 
emotions,  he  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  yielded  unseen, 
to  an  influence,  which,  coming  over  him  so  unexpectedly,  had 
all  the  force  of  enchantment.  The  notes  died  awa}',  then 
swelled  again  in  solemn  accompaniment  with  the  opening 
hymn.  The  hymn  closed  with  the  melodious  vibrations  of 
the  instrument,  and  for  a  few  moments  there  was  a  most  pro 
found  silence. 

"The  Lord  is  in  his  holy  temple;  let  all  the  earth  keep 
S'^nce  before  him  :"  uttered  a  deep,  solemn  voice. 

Villeneuve  raised  his  head  and  gazed  upon  the  speaker.  He 
was  a  man  rather  past  the  meridian  of  life,  but  wearing  un- 
marred  the  noblest  attributes  of  manhood.  His  brow  was 
unwrinkled,  his  piercing  eye  undimmed,  and  his  tall  figure 
majestic  and  unbowed.  The  sun  inclined  from  the  zenith,  but 
the  light,  the  warmth,  the  splendour  remained  in  all  their 
power,  and  the  hearts  of  the  hearers  radiated  that  light  ana 
warmth,  till  an  intense  gbw  pervaded  the  assembly,  and  the 


THE  VILLAGE  ANTHEM.  199 

opening  words  of  the  preacher  seemed  realized.  Yilleneuve 
was  an  Infidel ;  he  looked  upon  the  rites  of  Christianity  as 
theatrical  machinery,  necessary,  perhaps,  towards  carrying  on 
the  great  drama  of  life,  and  when  the  springs  were  well  ad 
justed  and  oiled,  and  the  pulleys  worked  without  confusion, 
and  every  appearance  of  art  was  kept  successfully  in  the  buck- 
ground,  he  was  willing  to  sit  and  listen  as  he  would  to  a  fine 
actor  when  reciting  the  impassioned  language  of  the  stage. 
"  This  man  is  a  very  fine  actor,"  was  his  first  thought,  "  he 
knows  his  part  well.  It  is  astonishing,  however,  that  he  ia 
willing  to  rqinain  in  such  a  limited  sphere — with  such  an  eyo 
and  voice — such  flowing  language  and  graceful  elocution,  he 
might  make  his  fortune  in  any  city.  It  is  incomprehensible 
that  he  is  content  to  linger  in  obscurity."  Thus  Villeneuve 
speculated,  till  his  whole  attention  became  absorbed  in  the 
sermon,  which  as  a  literary  production  was  exactly  suited  to 
his  fastidiously  refined  taste.  The  language  was  simple,  the 
sentiments  sublime.  The  preacher  did  not  bring  himself  down 
to  the  capacities  of  his  auditors,  he  lifted  them  to  his,  be  ele 
vated  them,  he  spiritualized  them.  He  was  deeply  read  iu 
the  mysteries  of  the  human  heart,  and  he  knew  that  however 
ignorant  it  might  be  of  the  truths  of  science  and  the  laws  of 
metaphysics,  it  contained  many  a  divine  spark  which  only 
required  an  eliciting  touch  to  kindle.  He  looked  down  into 
the  eyes  upturued  to  him  in  breathless  interest,  and  he  read  ia 
them  the  same  yearnings  after  immortality,  the  same  reverence 
f>r  the  Infinite  Majesty  of  the  Universe,  which  moved  and 
solemnized  his  own  soul.  His  manner  was  in  general  calm 
and  affectionate,  yet  there  were  moments  when  he  swept  the 
chords  of  human  passion  with  a  master's  hand,  and  the  hectic 
flush  of  his  cheek  told  of  the  fire  burning  within. 

"  He  is  a  scholar,  a  metaphysician,  a  philosopher,  and  a 
gentleman,"  said  Villeneuve  to  himself,  at  the  close  of  his 
discourse.  "  If  he  is  an  actor,  he  is  the  best  one  I  ever  saw. 
He  is  probably  an  enthusiast,  who,  if  he  had  lived  iu  ancient 
days,  would  have  worn  the  blazing  crown  of  martyrdom.  I 
should  like  to  see  his  daughter."  The  low  notes  of  the  organ 
again  rose,  as  if  in  response  to  his  heart's  desire.  This  time 
there  was  the  accompaniment  of  a  new  female  voice.  The 
congregation  rose  as  the  words  of  the  anthem  began.  It  waa 
a  kind  of  doxology,  the  chorus  terminating  with  the  solemn 
expression — "  for  ever  and  ever."  The  hand  of  the  organist 
DO  longer  trembled.  It  swept  over  the  keys,  as  if  the  euthu- 


200  THE  VILLAGE   ANTHEM. 

eiasm  of  an  exalted  spirit  were  communicated  to  every  pulse 
and  sinew.  The  undulating  strains  rolled  and  reverberated 
till  the  whole  house  was  filled  with  the  waves  of  harmony. 
But  high,  and  clear,  and  sweet  above  those  waves  of  harmony 
and  the  mingling  voices  of  the  choir,  rose  that  single  female 
voice,  uttering  the  burden  of  the  anthem,  "for  ever  and  ever." 
Villeneuve  closed  his  eyes.  He  was  oppressed  by  the  novelty 
of  his  sensations.  Where  was  he  ?  In  a  simple  village  church, 
listening  to  the  minstrelsy  of  a  simple  village  maiden,  and  he 
had  frequented  the  magnificent  cathedral  of  Notre  Dame,  been 
familiar  there  with  the  splendid  ritual  of  the  national  religion, 
and  heard  its  sublime  chantings  from  the  finest  choirs  in  the 
Universe.  Why  did  those  few  monotonous  words  so  thrill 
through  every  nerve  of  his  being  ?  That  eternity  which  he 
believed  was  the  dream  of  fanaticism,  seemed  for  a  moment 
an  awful  reality,  as  the  last  notes  of  the  paean  echoed  on  his 
ear. 

When  the  benediction  was  given,  and  the  congregation  was 
leaving  the  church,  he  watched  impatiently  for  the  foldings 
of  the  red  curtains  to  part,  and  his  heart  palpitated  when  he 
saw  a  white-robed  figure  glide  through  the  opening  and  imme 
diately  disappear.  The  next  minute  she  was  seen  at  the 
entrance  of  the  church,  evidently  waiting  the  approach  of  her 
father,  who,  surrounded  by  his  people,  pressing  on  each  other 
to  catch  a  kindly  greeting,  always  found  it  difficult  to  make 
his  egress.  As  she  thus  stood  against  a  column  which  sup 
ported  the  entrance,  Villeneuve  had  a  most  favourable  oppor 
tunity  of  scanning  her  figure,  which  he  did  with  a  practised 
and  scrutinizing  glance.  He  was  accustomed  to  Parisian  and 
English  beauty,  and  comparing  Grace  Blandford  to  the  high 
born  and  high-bred  beauties  of  the  old  world,  she  certainly 
lost  in  the  comparison.  She  was  very  simply  diessed,  her 
eyes  were  downcast,  and  her  features  were  in  complete  repose. 
Still  there  was  a  quiet  grace  about  her  that  pleased  him — a 
blending  of  perfect  simplicity  and  perfect  refinement  that  was 
extraordinary.  Mr.  Blaudford  paused  as  he  came  down  the 
aisle.  He  had  noticed  the  young  and  interesting  looking 
stranger,  who  listened  with  such  devout  attention  to  all  the 
exercises.  He  had  heard,  for  in  a  country  village  such  things 
are  rapidly  communicated,  that  there  was  a  traveller  at  the 
inn,  a  foreigner  and  an  invalid — two  strong  claims  to  sympathy 
and  kindness.  The  pallid  complexion  of  the  young  man  was  a 
sufficient  indication  of  the  latter,  and  the  air  of  high  breeding 


THE   VILLAGE  ANTHEM.  201 

distinguished  him  was  equal  to  a  letter  of  recommenda 
tion  in  his  behalf.  The  minister  accosted  him  with  great  be 
nignity,  and  invited  him  to  accompany  him  home. 

"You  are  a  stranger,"  said  he,  "and  I  understand  an 
invalid.  Perhaps  you  will  find  the  quiet  of  our  household 
more  congenial  this  day  than  the  bustle  of  a  public  dwelling." 

Villeneuve  bowed  his  delighted  acceptance  of  this  most 
unexpected  invitation.  He  grasped  the  proffered  hand  of  the 
minister  with  more  warmth  than  he  was  aware  of,  and  followed 
him  to  the  door  where  Grace  yet  stood,  with  downcast  eye& 

"  My  daughter,"  said  Mr.  Blandford,  drawing  her  hand 
through  his  arm.  This  simple  introduction  well  befitted  the 
place  where  it  was  made,  and  was  acknowledged  by  her  with 
a  gentle  bending  of  the  head  and  a  lifting  of  the  eyes,  and 
they  walked  in  silence  from  the  portals  of  the  church.  What 
a  change  had  the  mere  uplifting  of  those  veiled  lids  made  in 
her  countenance !  Two  lines  of  a  noble  bard  flashed  across  his 
memory — 

"  The  light  of  love,  the  purity  of  grace, 
The  mind,  the  music  breathing  from  her  face." 

Then  another  line  instantaneously  succeeded — 
"  And  oh !  that  eye  is  in  itself  a  soul." 

There  was  one  thing  which  disappointed  him.  He  did  not 
notice  a  single  blush  flitting  over  her  fair  cheek.  He  feared 
she  was  deficient  in  sensibility.  It  was  so  natural  to  blush  at 
a  stranger's  greeting.  He  did  not  understand  the  nature  of 
her  feelings.  He  could  not  know  that  one  so  recently  engaged 
in  sublime  worship  of  the  Creator,  must  be  lifted  above  fear 
or  confusion  in  the  presence  of  the  creature.  Villeneuve  had 
seen  much  of  the  world,  and  understood  the  art  of  adapted- 
ness,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word.  He  could  conform  to  the 
circumstances  in  which  he  might  be  placed  with  grace  and 
ease,  and  though  he  was  too  sincere  to  express  sentiments  he 
did  not  feel,  he  felt  justified  in  concealing  those  he  did  feel, 
when  he  knew  their  avowal  would  give  pain  or  displeasure 
It  was  a  very  singular  way  for  him  to  pass  the  Sabbath.  The 
guest  of  a  village  pastor,  breathing  an  atmosphere  redolent  of 
the  sweets  of  piety,  spirituality,  and  holy  love.  The  language 
of  levity  and  flattery,  so  current  in  society,  would  be  considered 
profanation  here ;  and  a  conviction  deeply  mortifying  to  his 


202  THE   VILLAGE   ANTHEM. 

vanity  forced  itself  upon  him,  that  all  those  accomplishments 
for  which  he  had  been  so  much  admired,  would  gain  him  no 
favour  with  the  minister  and  his  daughter.  He  could  not 
forbear  expressing  his  surprise  at  the  location  Mr.  Blandford 
had  chosen. 

"  I  would   not  insult  you  by  flattery,"    said  Villeneuve, 

,  ngenuously,  "  but  I  am  astonished  you  do  not  seek  a  wider 

phere  of  usefulness.     It  is  impossible  that  the  people  here 

should  appreciate  your  talents,  or  estimate  the  sacrifices  you 

make  to  enlighten  and  exalt  them." 

Mr.  Blandford  smiled  as  he  answered — "  You  think  my 
sphere  too  small,  while  I  tremble  at  the  weight  of  responsibility 
I  have  assumed.  If  I  have  the  talents  which  you  kindly 
ascribe  to  me,  I  find  here  an  ample  field  for  their  exercise. 
There  are  hundreds  of  minds  around  me  that  mingle  their 
aspirations  with  mine,  and  even  assist  me  in  the  heavenward 
journey.  In  a  larger,  more  brilliant  circle,  I  might  perhaps 
gain  a  more  sounding  name  and  exercise  a  wider  influence,  but 
that  influence  would  not  be  half  as  deep  and  heartfelt.  I  was 
born  and  bred  in  a  city,  and  know  the  advantages  such  a  life 
can  offer ;  but  I  would  not  exchange  the  tranquillity  of  this 
rural  residence,  the  serenity  of  my  pastoral  life,  the  paterual 
influence  I  wield  over  this  secluded  village,  and  the  love 
and  reverence  of  its  upright  and  pure-minded  inhabitants, 
for  the  splendid  sinecure  of  the  Archbishops  of  our  mother 
land." 

Villeneuve  was  astonished  to  see  a  man  so  nobly  endowed, 
entirely  destitute  of  the  principle  of  ambition.  He  wanted  to 
ask  him  how  he  had  thus  trampled  under  his  feet  the  honours 
and  distinctions  of  the  world.  "  You  consider  ambition  a 
vice,  then  ?"  said  he. 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  replied  Mr.  Blandford,  "  if  you  believe 
rue  destitute  of  ambition.  I  am  one  of  the  most  ambitious 
men  in  the  world.  But  I  aspire  after  honours  that  can  resist 
the  mutations  of  time,  and  partake  of  the  imperishability  of 
thair  Great  Bestower." 

There  was  a  silence  of  some  moments,  during  which  Mr 
Blandford  looked  upward,  and  the  eyes  of  Grace  followed  her 
father's  with  kindling  ray. 

"  But,  your  daughter,"  continued  Villeneuve,  "  can  she  find 
contentment  in  a  situation  for  which  nature  and  educatior  have 
j»o  evidently  unfitted  her  ?" 

lt  Let  Grace  answer  for  herself,"  said  Mr.  Blandford,  mildly ; 


THE   VILLAGE   ANTHEM.  203 

"  I  have  consulted  her  happiness  as  well  as  my  own,  in  the 
choice  I  have  made." 

Villeneuve  was  delighted  to  see  a  bright  blush  suffuse  the 
modest  cheek  of  Grace — but  it  was  the  blush  of  feeling,  not  of 
shame. 

"  I  love  the  country  rather  than  the  town,"  said  she,  "  for 
I  prefer  nature  to  art,  meditation  to  action,  and  the  works  of 
God  to  the  works  of  man ;  and  in  the  constant  companionship 
of  my  father  I  find  more  than  contentment — I  find  happiness, 

j°y-'.' 

Villeneuve  sighed — he  felt  the  isolation  of  his  own  destiny. 
The  last  of  his  family,  a  traveller  in  a  strange  land,  in  pursuit 
of  health ;  which  had  been  sacrificed  in  the  too  eager  pursuit 
of  the  pleasures  of  this  world,  without  one  hope  to  link  him 
to  another.  Affluent  and  uncontrolled,  yet  sated  and  despond 
ing,  he  envied  the  uncorrupted  taste  of  the  minister's  daugh 
ter.  He  would  have  bartered  all  his  wealth  for  the  enthusiasm 
that  warmed  the  character  of  her  father.  That  night  he  was 
awakened  by  a  singular  dream.  He  thought  he  was  alone  in 
the  horror  of  thick  darkness.  It  seemed  that  he  was  in  the 
midst  of  infinity,  and  yet  chained  to  one  dark  spot,  an  im 
movable  speck  in  the  boundless  ocean  of  space.  "  Must  I 
remain  here  for  ever?"  he  cried  in  agony,  such  as  is  only 
known  in  dreams,  when  the  spirit's  nerves  are  all  unsheathed. 
"  For  ever  and  ever,"  answered  a  sweet,  seraphic  voice,  high 
above  his  head,  and  looking  up  he  beheld  Grace,  reclining  on 
silver-bosomed  clouds,  so  distant  she  appeared  like  a  star  in 
the  heavens,  yet  every  lineament  perfectly  defined.  "  Am  I 
then  parted  from  thee  for  ever  ?"  exclaimed  he,  endeavouring 
to  stretch  out  his  arms  towards  the  luminous  point.  "  For 
ever  and  ever,"  responded  the  same  heavenly  accents,  mourn 
fully  echoing  till  they  died  away,  and  the*vision  fled.  He  was 
not  superstitious,  but  he  did  not  like  the  impression  of  his 
dream.  He  rose  feverish  and  unrefreshed,  and  felt  himself 
unable  to  continue  his  journey.  Mr.  Blandford  came  to  see 
him.  He  was  deeply  interested  in  the  young  stranger,  and 
experienced  the  pleasure  which  every  sensitive  and  intellectual 
being  feels  in  meeting  with  kindred  sensibility  and  intellect 
The  intimacy,  thus  commenced,  continued  to  increase,  and 
week  after  week  passed  away,  and  Villeneuve  still  lingered 
near  the  minister  and  his  daughter.  His  health  was  invigo 
rated,  his  spirits  excited  by  the  novel  yet  powerful  influences 
that  surrounded  him.  It  was  impossible,  in  the  course  of  thu1 


204  THE  VILLAGE  ANTHEM. 

deepening  intimacy,  that  the  real  sentiments  of  Villeneuve 
should  remain  concealed,  for  hypocrisy  formed  no  part  of  his 
character.  Mr.  Blandford,  relying  on  the  reverence  and  affec 
tion  Villeneuve  evidently  felt  for  him,  believed  it  would  be  an 
easy  task  to  interest  him  in  the  great  truths  of  religion.  And  it 
was  an  easy  task  to  interest  him,  particularly  when  the  father's 
arguments  were  backed  by  the  daughter's  persuasive  eloquence ; 
but  it  was  a  most  difficult  one  to  convince.  The  prejudices 
of  education,  the  power  of  habit,  the  hardening  influence  of  a 
worldly  life,  presented  an  apparently  impenetrable  shield  against 
the  arrows  of  divine  truth. 

"  I  respect,  I  revere  the  principles  of  your  religion,"  Vil 
leneuve  was  accustomed  to  say  at  the  close  of  their  long  and 
interesting  conversations.  "  I  would  willingly  endure  the 
pangs  of  death ;  yea,  the  agonies  of  martyrdom,  for  the  pos 
session  of  a  faith  like  yours.  But  it  is  a  gift  denied  to  me.  I 
cannot  force  my  belief,  nor  give  a  cold  assent  with  my  lips  to 
what  my  reason  and  my  conscience  belie." 

Mr.  Blandford  ceased  not  his  efforts,  notwithstanding  the 
unexpected  resistance  he  encountered,  but  Grace  gradually 
retired  from  the  conflict,  and  Villeneuve  found  to  his  sorrow 
and  mortification  that  she  no  longer  appeared  to  rejoice  in  his 
society.  There  was  a  reserve  in  her  manners  which  would 
have  excited  his  resentment,  had  not  the  sadness  of  her  coun 
tenance  touched  his  heart.  Sometimes  when  he  met  her  eye 
it  had  an  earnest,  reproachful,  pitying  expression,  that  thrilled 
to  his  soul.  One  evening  he  came  to  the  Parsonage  at  a  later 
hour  than  usual.  He  was  agitated  and  pale.  "  I  have  received 
letters  of  importance,"  said  he;  "I  must  leave  you  imme 
diately.  I  did  not  know  that  all  my  happiness  was  centered 
in  the  intercourse  I  have  been  holding  with  your  family,  till 
this  summons  came.*7  Grace,  unable  to  conceal  her  emotions, 
rose  and  left  the  apartment.  Villeneuve's  eyes  followed  her 
with  an  expression  which  made  her  father  tremble.  He  anti 
cipated  the  scene  which  followed.  "  Mr.  Blandford,"  con 
tinued  Villeneuve,  "  I  love  your  daughter.  I  cannot  live 
without  her — I  cannot  depart  without  an  assurance  of  her  love 
»nd  your  approbation." 

Mr.  Blandford  was  too  much  agitated  to  reply — the  blood 
rushed  to  his  temples,  then  retreating  as  suddenly,  left  his 
brow  and  cheek  as  colourless  as  marble.  "  I  should  have  fore 
seen  this/'  at  length  he  said.  "  It  would  have  spared  us  all 
much  misery." 


THE   VILLAGE  ANTHEM.  205 

"  Misery  !"  replied  Villeneuve,  in  a  startling  tone. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Blandford,  "  I  have  been  greatly  to 
blame — I  have  suffered  my  feelings  to  triumph  over  my  judg 
ment.  Villeneuve,  I  have  never  met  a  young  man  who  won 
upon  my  affections  as  you  have  done.  The  ingenuousness, 
ardour,  and  generosity  of  your  character  impelled  me  to  love 
you.  I  still  love  you ;  but  I  pity  you  still  more.  I  can  nevei 
trust  my  daughter's  happiness  in  your  hands.  There  is  a  gulf 
between  you — a  wall  of  separation — high  as  the  heavens  and 
deeper  than  the  foundations  of  the  earth."  He  paused,  and 
bowed  his  face  upon  his  hands.  The  possibility  that  his 
daughter's  happiness  might  be  no  longer  in  her  own  keeping, 
completely  overpowered  him.  Villeneuve  listened  in  astonish 
ment  and  dismay.  He,  in  all  the  pride  of  affluence  and  rank 
(for  noble  blood  ran  in  lineal  streams  through  his  veins),  to  be 
rejected  by  an  obscure  village  pastor,  from  mere  religious 
scruples.  It  was  incredible — one  moment  his  eye  flashed 
haughtily  on  the  bending  figure  before  him ;  the  next  it 
wavered,  in  the  apprehension  that  Grace  might  yield  to  her 
father's  decision,  and  seal  their  final  separation.  "  Mr.  Bland- 
ford,"  cried  he,  passionately,  "  I  can  take  my  rejection  only 
from  your  daughter — I  have  never  sought  her  love  unsanctioned 
by  your  approbation — I  have  scorned  the  guise  of  a  hypocrite, 
and  I  have  a  right  to  claim  this  from  you.  You  may  destroy 
•my  happiness — it  is  in  your  power — but  tremble  lest  you 
sacrifice  a  daughter's  peace." 

Mr.  Blandford  recovered  his  self-command,  as  the  passions 
of  the  young  man  burst  their  bounds.  He  summoned  Grace 
into  his  presence.  "  I  yield  to  your  impetuous  desire,"  said 
he,  "  but  I  would  to  Heaven  you  had  spared  me  a  scene  like 
this.  Painful  as  it  is,  I  must  remain  to  be  a  witness  to  it." 
He  took  his  daughter's  hand  as  she  entered,  and  drew  her 
towards  him.  He  watched  her  countenance  while  the  first 
vows  of  love  to  which  she  had  ever  listened  were  breathed 
into  her  ear  with  an  eloquence  and  a  fervour  which  seemed 
irresistible,  and  these  were  aided  by  the  powerful  auxiliary  of 
a  most  handsome  and  engaging  person,  and  he  trembled  as  he 
gazed.  Her  cheek  kindled,  her  eye  lighted  up  with  rapture, 
her  heart  panted  with  excessive  emotion.  She  leaned  on  her 
father's  arm,  unable  to  speak,  but  looked  up  in  his  face  with 
an  expression  that  spoke  volumes. 

"  You  love  him,  then,  Grace,"  said  he  mournfully,     "  Oh, 
ioy  God  !  forgive  me  the  folly,  the  blindness,  the  madness  of 
which  I  have  been  guilty  I" 
114 


206  THE   VILLAGE   ANTHEM. 

Grace  started,  as  if  wakening  from  a  dream.  Her  father's 
words  recalled  her  to  herself — one  brief  moment  of  ecstasy  had 
been  hers — to  be  followed,  she  knew,  by  hours  of  darkness 
and  sorrow.  The  warm  glow  faded  from  her  cheek,  and  throw 
ing  her  arms  round  her  father's  neck,  she  wept  unrestrainedly. 

"She  loves  me,"  exclaimed  Villeneuve;  "you  yourself 
witness  her  emotions — you  will  not  separate  us — you  will  not 
Buffer  a  cruel  fanaticism  to  destroy  us  both." 

"  Grace,"  said  Mr.  Blandford,  in  a  firm  voice,  "  look  up. 
Let  not  the  feelings  of  a  moment,  but  the  principles  of  a  life 
decide.  Will  you  hazard,  for  the  enjoyment  of  a  few  fleeting 
years,  the  unutterable  interests  of  eternity  ?  Will  you  forsake 
the  Master  he  abjures  for  the  bosom  of  a  stranger  ?  In  one 
word,  my  daughter,  will  you  wed  an  Infidel  ?" 

Grace  lifted  her  head,  and  clasping  her  hands  together, 
looked  fervently  upward. 

"  Thou  art  answered,"  cried  Mr.  Blandford,  with  a  repelling 
motion  towards  Villeneuve.  "  The  God  she  invokes  will  give 
her  strength  to  resist  temptation.  Go,  then,  most  unhappy 
yet  beloved  young  man — you  have  chosen  your  destiny,  and  we 
have  chosen  ours.  You  live  for  time.  We,  for  eternity.  As 
I  said  before,  there  is  a  deep  gulf  between  us.  Seek  not  to 
drag  her  down  into  the  abyss  into  which  you  would  madly 
plunge.  My  soul  hath  wrestled  with  yours,  and  you  have 
resisted,  though  I  fought  with  weapons  drawn  from  Heaven's 
own  armory.  Farewell — our  prayers  and  our  tears  will  fol 
low  you." 

He  extended  his  hand  to  grasp  Villeneuve's  for  the  last 
time,  but  Villeneuve,  with  every  passion  excited  beyond  the 
power  of  control,  rejected  the  motion ;  and,  snatching  the  hand 
of  Grace,  which  hung  powerless  over  her  father's  shoulder, 
drew  her  impetuously  towards  him.  "  She  loves  me,"  exclaimed 
he,  "  and  I  will  never  resign  her ;  I  swear  it  by  the  inexorable 
Power  you  so  blindly  worship.  Perish  the  religion  that 
would  crush  the  dearest  and  holiest  feelings  of  the  human 
heart !  Perish  the  faith  that  exults  in  the  sacrifice  of  nature 
and  of  love !" 

With  one  powerful  arm  Mr.  Blandford  separated  his  daugh- 
ter  from  the  embrace  of  her  lover,  and  holding  him  back  with 
the  other,  commanded  him  to  depart.  He  was  dreadfully 
agitated,  the  veins  of  his  temples  started  out  like  cords,  and 
his  eyes  flashed  with  imprisoned  fires.  Villeneuve  writhed 
for  a  moment  in  his  unrekxing  grasp,  then,  reeling  backward, 


THE    VILLAGE  ANTHEM.  207 

sunk  upon  a  sofa.    He  turned  deadly  pale,  and  held  his  hand 
kerchief  to  his  face. 

"  Oh !  father !  you  have  killed  him  !"  shrieked  Grace,  spring 
ing  to  his  side;  "  he  faints  !  he  bleeds,  he  dies  !" 

Even  while  Grace  was  speaking,  the  white  handkerchief  was 
crimsoned  with  blood,  the  eyes  of  the  young  man  closed,  and 
he  fell  back  insensible. 

"  Just  Heaven  !  spare  me  this  curse  !"  cried  Mr.  Blandford 
"  Great  God  !  I  have  killed  them  both  I" 

They  did  indeed  look  like  two  murdered  victims,  for  the 
blood  which  oozed  from  the  young  man's  lips  not  only  dyed 
his  own  handkerchief  and  neckcloth,  but  reddenad  the  white 
dress  of  Grace  and  stiffened  on  her  fair  locks,  as  her  head 
drooped  unconsciously  on  his  breast.  All  was  horror  and 
confusion  in  the  household.  The  physician  was  immediately 
summoned,  who  declared  that  a  blood-vessel  was  ruptured, 
and  that  the  life  of  the  young  man  was  in  the  most  imminent 
danger.  Grace  was  borne  to  her  own  apartment  and  con 
signed  to  the  care  of  some  kind  neighbours,  but  Mr.  Blandford 
remained  the  whole  night  by  Villeneuve's  side,  holding  his 
hand  in  his,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  pallid  countenance, 
trembling  lest  every  fluttering  breath  should  be  his  last. 
About  daybreak  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  seeing  who  was 
watching  so  tenderly  over  him,  pressed  his  hand  and  attempted 
to  speak,  but  the  doctor  commanded  perfect  silence,  assuring 
him  that  the  slightest  exertion  would  be  at  the  hazard  of  his 
life.  For  two  or  three  days  he  hovered  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave,  during  which  time  Mr.  Blandford  scarcely  left  his  side, 
and  Grace  lingered  near  the  threshold  of  the  door,  pale  and 
sleepless,  the  image  of  despair.  One  night,  when  he  seemed 
to  be  in  a  deep  sleep,  Mr.  Blandford  knelt  by  his  couch,  and 
in  a  low  voice  breathed  out  his  soul  in  prayer.  His  vigil  had 
been  one  long  prayer,  but  he  felt  that  he  must  find  vent  in 
language  for  the  depth  and  strength  of  his  emotions.  He 
prayed  in  agony  for  the  life  of  the  young  man ;  for  his  soul' 
life.  He  pleaded,  he  supplicated ;  till,  language  failing,  sigh 
and  tears  alone  bore  witness  to  the  strivings  of  his  spirit 
"  Yet,  not  my  will,  oh !  God !"  ejaculated  he  again,  "  but 
thine  be  done." 

"  Amen !"  uttered  a  faint  voice.  The  minister  started  as 
if  he  had  heard  a  voice  from  the  dead.  It  was  Villeneuve 
who  spoke,  and  whose  eyes  fixed  upon  him  had  a  most  intense 
and  thrilling  expression.  "Your  prayer  is  heard,"  continued 


208  THE  VILLAGE   ANTHEM. 

he.  "  I  feel  that  God  is  merciful.  A  ray  of  divine  light 
illumines  my  parting  hour.  Let  me  see  Grace  before  I  die, 
that  our  souls  may  mingle  once  on  earth,  in  earnest  of  their 
union  hereafter." 

The  minister  led  his  daughter  to  the  couch  of  Villeneuve. 
He  joined  her  hand  in  his.  "  My  daughter,"  cried  he,  "  rejoice. 
I  asked  for  him  life.  God  giveth  unto  him  long  life ;  yea,  life 
for  evermore." 

Grace  bowed  her  head  on  the  pale  hand  that  clasped  her 
own,  and  even  in  that  awful  moment,  a  torrent  of  joy  gushed 
into  her  soul.  It  was  the  foretaste  of  an  eternal  wedlock,  and 
death  seemed  indeed  swallowed  up  in  victory.  Mr.  Blandford 
knelt  by  his  kneeling  daughter,  and  many  a  time  during  that 
night  they  thought  they  saw  the  spirit  of  Villeneuve  about  to 
take  its  upward  flight ;  but  he  sunk  at  length  into  a  gentle 
slumber,  and  when  the  doctor  again  saw  him,  he  perceived  a 
favourable  change  in  his  pulse,  and  told  Mr.  Blandford  there 
was  a  faint  hope  of  his  recovery.  "  With  perfect  quiet  and 
tender  nursing,"  said  he,  looking  meaningly  at  Grace,  "  he 
may  yet  possibly  be  saved." 

The  predictions  of  the  excellent  physician  were  indeed  ful 
filled,  for  in  less  than  three  weeks  Villeneuve,  though  still 
weak  and  languid,  was  able  to  take  his  seat  in  the  family 
circle.  Mr.  Blandford  saw  with  joy  that  the  faith  which  he 
had  embraced  in  what  he  believed  his  dying  hour,  was  not 
abandoned  with  returning  health.  He  had  always  relied  on 
the  rectitude  of  his  principles,  and  now,  when  religion  strength 
ened  and  sanctified  them,  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  sanction  his 
union  with  his  daughter.  The  business  which  had  summoned 
him  so  unexpectedly  to  his  native  country  still  remained  un 
settled,  and  as  the  physician  prescribed  a  milder  climate,  he 
resolved  to  try  the  genial  air  of  France.  It  was  no  light 
sacrifice  for  Mr.  Blandford  to  give  up  his  daughter,  the  sole 
treasury  of  his  affections,  and  doom  himself  to  a  solitary  home  j 
but  he  did  it  without  murmuring,  since  he  hoped  the  blessing 
f  heaven  would  hallow  their  nuptials.  Villeneuve  promised 
to  return  the  ensuing  year,  and  restore  Grace  again  to  her 
beloved  parsonage. 

The  Sunday  before  their  departure,  Grace  accompanied  her 
father  and  husband  to  the  village  church.  Villeneuve  saw 
the  boy  who  had  guided  him  there  the  first  time,  standing  at 
the  portal.  He  returned  his  respectful  salutation  with  a  warm 


THE    VILLAGE  ANTHEM.  209 

grasp  of  the  hand.  "  He  led  me  to  the  gate  of  heaven/'  thought 
he ;  "  he  shall  not  go  unrewarded." 

"  She  will  be  too  proud  to  play  on  the  organ  any  more," 
said  the  boy  to  himself,  "  now  that  she  has  married  a  great  man 
and  a  foreigner ;"  but  Grace  ascended  the  steps  as  usual,  and 
drew  the  red  curtains  closely  round  her.  What  the  feelings 
of  the  musician  were,  within  that  sacred  sanctuary,  as  she 
pressed  the  keys,  probably  for  the  last  time,  could  only  be 
judged  from  a  trembling  touch;  but  at  the  close  of  the 
services,  when  the  same  sublime  anthem,  with  the  burden  "  for 
ever  and  ever,"  was  sung  by  the  choir,  Villeneuve  recognised 
the  same  clear,  adoring  accents  which  first  fell  so  thrillingly 
on  his  ear.  He  remembered  hia  dream.  It  no  longer  filled 
him  with  superstitious  horror.  It  was  caused  by  the  workings 
of  his  dark  and  troubled  mind.  Now  every  thought  flowed  in 
a  new  channel ;  he  seemed  a  new  being  to  himself. 

"  Are  we  indeed  united  ?"  said  he,  while  his  soul  hung  on 
the  echoes  of  that  SAveet  strain,  "  and  shall  we  be  united  for 
ever  ?" 

"  For  ever  and  ever,"  returned  the  voice  of  the  worshipper ; 
and  the  whole  choir,  joining  in,  in  a  full  burst  of  harmony, 
repeated  again  and  again,  "for  ever  and  ever." 


THE  BOSOM  SERPENT. 


11 1  RA.VE  something  to  tell  you,  Rosamond,"  said  Cecil 
Dormer,  taking  Rosamond  Clifford  on  his  knee  and  seating 
himself  in  a  corner  of  her  mother's  sofa—"  Don't  you  want  to 
hear  a  story  to-night  ?" 

"  Is  it  a  sure  enough  story  ?"  asked  Rosamond,  "  or  a  fairy 
tale,  like  the  Arabian  Nights  Entertainment  ?" 

"  Every  word  of  it  truth,"  answered  Cecil — "though  some 
portions  of  it  may  t  freeze  your  young  blood.'  It  is  of  a  little 
girl,  about  your  own  age,  and  a  woman  who  I  verily  believe 
is  Lucifer  himself  dressed  in  woman's  clothes." 

"  You  have  excited  my  curiosity,"  said  Mrs.  Clifford  closing 
her  book,  and  taking  a  seat  on  the  sofa — "  for  as  every  story 
must  have  a  hero,  I  suspect  you  are  the  hero  of  your  own." 

"  Please  tell  it,"  cried  Rosamond,  with  the  impatience  of  a 
petted  child — "  I  want  to  hear  about  the  little  girl." 

"  Well,"  said  Cecil,  "  you  recollect  how  bright  and  beautiful 
the  moon  shone  last  night,  and  how  peaceful  and  lovely  every 
thing  looked.  As  I  was  returning  to  my  lodgings,  rather 
later  than  usual,  I  passed  through  a  lane,  which  shortened  the 
distance,  though  the  walk  itself  was  rough  and  unpleasant.  As 
I  was  indulging  in  my  old  habit  of  building  castles  by  the  moon 
light,  I  heard  the  most  piercing  shrieks  issuing  from  a  low 
building  to  which  I  was  directly  opposite.  There  must  be 
murder  going  on,  thought  I,  and  like  the  giant,  I  imagined  I 
could  '  smell  the  blood  of  an  Englishman.'  I  rushed  to  the 
door,  almost  shook  it  from  its  hinges  in  opening  it,  and  found 
myself  in  the  narrow,  dark  passage — but,  guided  by  the  cries, 
I  soon  reached  another  door,  which  I  opened  with  as  little 
ceremony,  and  what  do  you  think  I  saw  ?" 

(210; 


THE   BOSOM   SERPENT.  211 

"Were  they  killing  the  poor  little  girl?"  cried  Rosamond, 
drawing  a  long  breath,  her  eyes  growing  larger  and  darker. 

"  You  shall  hear.  In  the  centre  of  the  room,  there  was  a 
large,  iron-framed  woman,  with  her  right  hand  extended, 
brandishing  a  leathern  thong  over  the  head  of  a  pale,  shrinking 
girl,  whom  she  grasped  with  her  left  hand,  and  from  whose 
bare  shoulders  the  blood  was  oozing  through  grooves  that 
thong  had  cut.  You  may  well  start  and  shudder,  for  a  more 
hideous  spectacle  never  met  the  eye.  She  was  just  in  the  act 
of  inflicting  another  lash,  when  I  arrested  her  arm  with  a/orce 
which  must  have  made  it  ache  to  the  marrow  of  the  bones,  and 
caused  her  involuntarily  to  loosen  her  hold  of  her  victim,  who 
fell  exhausted  to  the  floor.  The  woman  turned  on  me,  with 
the  fury  of  a  wolf  interrupted  in  its  bloody  banquet." 

"  Did  she  look  like  the  picture  of  the  wolf  in  little  Red 
Riding  Hood?"  asked  Rosamond. 

"  Yes,  a  most  striking  resemblance.  Her  cap  was  blown 
back  to  the  crown  of  her  head  by  the  barbarous  exercise  in 
which  she  had  been  engaged,  her  tongue  actually  protruded 
from  her  mouth,  in  the  impotence  of  her  rage,  and  her  hard, 
dull-coloured  eyes  glowed  like  red-hot  stones  in  their  deep 
sockets." 

"'What  do  you  want?'  cried  she,  in  a  voice  between  a 
growl  and  a  scream — '  and  who  are  you,  and  what  is  your 
business  ?  You  had  better  take  care,  or  I'll  make  your  back 
smart,  in  spite  of  your  fine  coat.' 

"  I  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  idea  of  being  whipped  by 
a  woman,  but  I  answered  as  sternly  as  possible — '  I  want 
humanity,  for  I  am  a  man.  My  business  is  to  snatch  this 
child  from  your  clutches,  and  to  give  you  up  to  the  city 
authorities  for  disturbing  the  public  peace.' 

"  '  It  is  her  fault,  not  mine,'  replied  she,  a  little  intimidated 
by  my  threat — '  she  always  screams  and  hollows  when  I  whip 
her,  as  if  I  were  murdering  her,  if  I  but  scratch  her  skin.  I 
gave  her  a  task  to  do,  and  told  her  if  she  did  not  do  it  I  would 
whip  her — a  good-for-nothing,  lazy  thing  ! — mope,  mope  from 
morning  to  night,  nothing  but  mope  and  fret,  while  I'm 
drudging  like  a  slave.  I'm  not  going  to  support  her  any 
longer,  if  I  have  to  turn  her  out  of  doors.  She  thinks 
because  her  mother  happened  to  die  here,  I  must  give  her  a 
home,  forsooth,  and  she  do  nothing  to  pay  for  it,  the  ungrate 
ful  hussy !'" 

"  Oh  !  don't  tell  any  more  about  that  horrid  old  woman," 


THE  BOSOM   SERPENT. 

interrupted  Rosamond — "  I  want  to  hear  about  the  little  girl. 
What  did  she  do  ?" 

"  Why,  she  wept  and  sobbed,  and  said  she  did  all  she  could, 
but  that  she  was  sick  and  weak,  and  she  wished  she  was  iu 
the  grave,  by  her  poor  mother's  side,  for  there  was  nobody  in 
the  world  to  take  care  of  her,  and  she  knew  not  what  would 
become  of  her.  I  told  her  impulsively  that  /would  see  she 
was  taken  care  of,  and  if  that  vile  woman  but  lifted  her 
finger  against  her  once  more,  she  should  rue  it  to  her  heart's 
core." 

"  There,  Cecil,  you  have  made  a  rhyme,  so  you  must  wish 
before  you  speak  again,"  said  Rosamond,  laughing. 

"  Well,  I  wish  that  poor,  desolate  child  had  a  home  like 
this,  and  a  mother  like  Mrs.  Clifford,  and  a  companion  like 
Rosamond — or  I  wish  that  I  had  a  kind  mother  and  sister,  to 
whose  care  I  could  intrust  her,  or  a  sweet  gentle  wife — and  it 
is  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  ever  breathed  that  wish — who 
would  be  willing  to  protect  and  cherish  her  for  my  sake." 

"  Is  she  a  pretty  child  ?"  interrogated  Mrs.  Clifford,  feelings 
best  known  to  herself  prompting  the  question. 

"  Yes  !"  repeated  Rosamond,  eagerly,  stealing  a  look  in  the 
glass  at  her  own  bright  eyes,  fair  complexion,  and  curling  locks 
— "  is  she  pretty,  and  was  she  dressed  nice  ?" 

"No  !"  answered  Cecil,  "the  only  emotion  she  could  excite 
is  that  of  the  deepest  pity.  She  is  thin  to  emaciation,  sallow 
to  cadaverousness,  and  her  eyes  occupy  the  greatest  portion  of 
her  face,  they  look  so  large  and  hollow  and  wild.  She  might 
sit  for  a  miniature  representation  of  famine,  disease,  or  woe. 
There  is  something  about  her,  however,  that  speaks  of  gentle 
blood  and  early  gentle  breeding.  Her  name  at  least  ia 
aristocratic,  and  bespeaks  a  French  extraction — Eugenia  St. 
Clair." 

Rosamond  was  delighted  with  the  name,  and  wondered  how 
she  could  help  being  pretty  with  such  a  beautiful  name. 

"  Poor  child  !"  said  Mrs.  Clifford,  "  it  is  a  pity  she  is  not 
handsome,  it  would  add  so  much  to  the  romance  of  the  adven 
ture." 

"  She  is  helpless  and  oppressed,"  cried  Cecil  warmly,  "  and 
if  she  had  the  beauty  of  a  cherub  her  claims  would  not  plead 
more  eloquently  than  they  do  in  my  heart.  I  should  think  I 
were  guilty  of  murder,  if  I  left  her  in  the  hands  of  that  virago. 
It  is  true  I  put  a  douceur  in  her  hand,  terrifying  her  at  the 
same  time  with  the  threatenings  of  the  law,  but  this  will  only 


THE   BOSOM   SERPENT.  213 

purchase  the  child's  security  for  a  short  time.  I  made  a  vow 
to  myself,  when  she  clung  to  me  convulsively,  as  I  attempted 
to  leave  her,  that  I  would  plage  her  in  some  situation  where 
she  could  find  kindness  and  protection,  till  fitting  arrangements 
can  be  made  for  her  education." 

"  You  are  indeed  romantic,"  said  Mrs.  Clifford,  seriously, 
"  and  know  not  what  you  may  entail  upon  yourself." 

"  I  am  sorry  if  you  think  me  so,"  said  Cecil,  with  a  look 
of  mortification  and  disappointment — "  I  see  I  have  as  usual 
drawn  too  hasty  conclusions.  You  have  been  so  very  kind  to 
me,  so  kind  as  to  make  me  forget  in  your  household  the 
absence  of  domestic  ties.  I  dared  to  hope  you  would  assist  me 
in  my  design,  and  perhaps  receive  for  a  little  while,  under  your 
own  roof,  this  neglected  child  of  orphanage  and  want.  I  have 
no  other  friend  of  whom  I  could  ask  a  similar  favour,  and  if  I 
find  I  am  presuming  too  much  on  you,  I  believe  I  must  try  to 
fall  in  love  and  get  married,  so  that  I  can  take  my  protegee  to 
a  home  of  my  own." 

Mrs.  Clifford  had  not  the  most  distant  idea  of  permitting 
him  to  do  so  preposterous  a  thing,  for  she  had  long  since  ap 
propriated  him  to  Rosamond,  whom  as  a  child  he  now  petted 
and  caressed,  and  whom,  if  he  continued  as  he  now  was,  fancy 
free,  as  a  woman  he  must  inevitably  love.  When  he  first 
mentioned  the  girl,  and  expressed  such  a  strong  interest  in 
her  behalf,  she  began  to  tremble  in  anticipation,  fearing  a 
future  rival  in  her  views ;  but  the  lean,  sallow  face,  half  eyes 
and  half  bone,  just  delineated,  tranquillized  her  fears,  and  as 
her  fears  subsided,  her  pity  strengthened.  And  Rosamond, 
though  too  young  to  enter  into  her  mother's  speculations,  felt 
her  sympathy  increased  tenfold  since  she  had  learned  that 
nature  had  gone  hand  in  hand  with  fortune,  and  been  equally 
niggard  of  her  boons.  She  was  unfortunately  an  only  child, 
and  accustomed  to  be  an  object  of  exclusive  attention  in  the 
household,  from  her  idolizing  mother  down  to  the  lowest 
menial.  The  guests  too  easily  understood  the  way  to  Mrs. 
;  Clifford's  heart,  and  as  Rosamond  was  pretty  and  sprightly, 
they  derived  amusement  from  her  little  airs  and  graces.  But 
what  flattered  her  vanity  and  elated  her  pride  more  than  any- 
ihing  else,  Cecil  Dormer,  so  distinguished  for  wealth  and 
Accomplishments,  so  courted  and  admired,  seemed  to  prefer  her 
company  to  the  society  of  grown  ladies,  who  had  often  declared 
themselves  jealous  of  her,  and  threatened,  when  she  was  a  fow 
years  older;to  shut  her  up  in  some  convent  or  cell.  Thus  imper- 


214  THE   BOSOM    SERPENT. 

ceptibly  acquiring  an  exaggerated  idea  of  her  own  consequence, 
and  believing  the  love  and  admiration  of  all  her  inalienable 
right,  had  Cecil  represented  the.orphan  Eugenia  as  beautiful 
and  charming,  it  is  more  than  probable  she  would  have  regarded 
her  as  a  dreaded  encroacher  on  boundaries  which  nature  had 
prescribed  and  fortune  guarded — but  for  the  ugly  Eugenia  all 
her  sympathies  were  enlisted,  and  she  pleaded  her  mother  so 
varmly  to  bring  her  there  directly,  and  take  her  away  from  that 
roadful  woman  for  good  and  all,  that  Cecil  was  delighted 
with  her  sensibility  and  benevolence,  and  rejoiced  in  such  a 
juvenile  coadjutor. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Clifford  accompanied  Dormer  to 
Mrs.  Grundy's,  the  woman  of  the  leathern  thong,  of  whom 
ehe  requested  the  history  of  Eugenia.  Mrs.  Grundy  was  sul 
len,  and  but  little  disposed  to  be  communicative.  She  declared 
she  knew  nothing  about  her  mother,  only  that  she  came  there 
as  a  boarder,  with  barely  sufficient  to  pay  the  expenses  of  her 
lodgings ;  that  she  fell  sick  soon  after,  and  died,  leaving  the 
little  girl  on  her  hands,  with  nothing  in  the  world  but  a  grand 
name  for  her  support.  She  expressed  no  gratitude  or  plea 
sure  at  the  prospect  of  being  released  from  the  burthen  under 
which  she  groaned,  but  grumbled  about  her  own  hard  lot,  in 
sinuating  that  idleness  and  ingratitude  were  always  sure  to  be 
rewarded.  Eugenia's  appearance  was  a  living  commentary  on 
the  truth  of  Dormer's  story.  Her  neck  and  shoulders  were 
streaked  with  swollen  and  livid  lines,  and  her  large,  blood-shot 
eyes  spoke  of  repressed  and  unutterable  anguish.  When  told 
of  the  new  home  to  which  she  was  to  be  transferred,  that  she 
was  to  be  placed  by  Dormer  under  the  protection  of  Mrs.  Clif 
ford,  and  that  if  she  were  a  good  girl,  and  merited  such  ad 
vantages,  she  should  be  sent  to  school,  and  be  fitted  for  a 
respectable  station  in  society — she  stood  like  one  bewildered, 
as  if  awaking  from  a  dream.  Then,  after  taking  in  the  truth 
of  her  position,  she  turned  towards  Dormer  with  wonderful 
quickness  and  even  grace  of  motion,  and  clasping  her  hands 
together,  attempted  to  speak,  but  burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of 
weeping. 

"  There  !"  cried  Mrs.  Grundy,  "  you  see  what  an  ungrateful 
cretur  she  is.  Do  what  you  will  for  her,  she  does  nothing  but 
cry.  Well,  all  I  hope,  you'll  not  be  sick  of  your  bargain,  and 
be  imposing  her  on  me,  before  the  week  comes  round  again. 
But  I  give  you  warning,  when  once  she  gets  out  of  my  doors, 
•he  never  darkens  them  a  second  time." 


THE  BOSOM   SERPENT.  215 

Dormer  cast  upon  her  a  withering  look,  but,  disdaining  to 
reply  to  mere  vulgarity  and  insolence,  lie  took  the  hand  of 
the  sobbing  child,  and  motioning  to  Mrs.  Clifford,  they  left 
the  room,  while  Mrs.  Grundy's  voice,  keeping  up  a  deep 
thorough  bass,  followed  them  till  the  door  of  the  carriage  was 
closed  and  the  rumbling  of  the  wheels  drowned  accents  which 
••ertainly  "  by  distance  were  made  more  sweet." 

Eugenia  had  not  been  an  hour  under  the  roof  of  Mrs.  Clif 
»ord,  before  a  complete  transformation  was  effected,  by  the 
supervising  care  of  the  proud  and  busy  Kosamond.  Her  wait 
ing-maid  was  put  in  active  employment,  in  combing,  brushing, 
and  perfuming  Eugenia's  neglected  hair,  her  wardrobe  was  ran 
sacked  to  supply  her  fitting  apparel,  her  mother's  medicine  chest 
was  opened  to  furnish  a  healing  liniment  for 'her  lacerated 
neck,  which  was  afterwards  covered  by  a  neat  muslin  apron. 

"  Now  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass,"  said  Rosamond,  leading 
her  to  a  large  mirror,  which  reflected  the  figure  at  full  length ; 
"  don't  you  look  nice  ?" 

Eugenia  cast  one  glance,  then  turned  away  with  a  deep 
sigh.  The  contrast  of  her  own  tawny  visage  and  meagre 
limbs  with  the  fair,  bright,  round,  joyous  face  and  glowing 
lineaments  of  Rosamond,  was  too  painful;  but  Rosamond 
loved  to  linger  where  a  comparison  so  favourable  to  herself 
could  be  drawn,  and  her  kind  feelings  to  Eugenia  rose  in  pro 
portion  to  the  self-complacency  of  which  she  was  the  cause. 

It  was  a  happy  little  circle  which  met  that  evening  around 
Mrs.  Clifford's  table.  Mrs.  Clifford  was  happy  in  the  new 
claim  she  had  acquired  over  Cecil  Dormer,  and  the  probable 
influence  it  might  exert  on  her  future  plans.  Rosamond  was 
bappy  in  enacting  the  character  of  Lady  Bountiful,  and  being 
praised  by  Cecil  Dormer ;  and  Cecil  himself  was  happy  in  the 
consciousness  of  having  performed  a  benevolent  action. 
Eugenia's  spirits  had  been  so  crushed  by  sorrow  and  unkind- 
ness,  it  seemed  as  if  their  elastic  principle  were  destroyed. 
She  was  gentle,  but  passive,  and  appeared  oppressed  by  the 
strangeness  of  her  situation.  Yet,  as  she  expressed  no  vulgar 
amazement  at  the  elegancies  that  surrounded  her,  and  had 
evidently  been  taught  the  courtesies  of  society,  Mrs.  Clifford 
became  convinced  that  Dormer  was  right  in  bis  belief  that 
she  was  of  gentle  blood,  and  the  fear  that  Rosamond's  manners 
might  be  injured  by  contact  with  an  unpolished  plebeian 
subsided.  When  Eugenia  was  somewhat  accustomed  to  her 
new  situation,  Mrs.  Clifford  questioned  her  minutely  with 


216  THE  BOSOM   SERPENT. 

regard  to  her  parentage  and  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  her 
mother's  death.  She  gathered  from  her  broken  and  timid 
answers,  that  her  father  was  wealthy,  and  that  the  first  years 
of  her  life  were  passed  in  affluence ;  that  as  she  grew  older 
her  mother  seemed  unhappy  and  her  father  stern  and  gloomy, 
why  she  could  not  tell;  that  one  night,  during  her  father's 
absence,  her  mother  had  left  her  home,  accompanied  by  herself 
and  one  servant  girl,  and  taken  passage  in  a  steamboat  for 
that  city.  They  boarded  in  obscure  lodgings,  never  went 
abroad,  or  received  visiters  at  home.  Her  mother  grew  paler 
and  sadder.  At  length  the  servant  girl,  who  seemed  greatly 
attached  to  them,  died.  Then  she  described  her  mother  as 
being  much  distressed  for  money  to  pay  her  board,  being 
obliged  to  part  with  her  watch  and  jewels,  and  when  these 
resources  failed,  thankful  to  obtain  sewing  from  her  landlady, 
or,  through  her,  from  others.  As  they  became  more  wretched 
and  helpless,  they  were  compelled  to  go  from  house  to  house, 
where  her  mother  could  find  employment,  till  she  was  taken 
Bick  at  Mrs.  Grundy's,  and  never  lifted  her  head  again  from 
the  pillow  so  grudgingly  supplied.  A  diamond  ring,  the  most 
valued  and  carefully  preserved  of  all  her  jewels,  procured  for 
her  the  sad  privilege  of  dying  there.  Over  her  consequent 
sufferings  Eugenia  only  wept,  and  on  this  subject  Mrs.  Clifford 
had  no  curiosity. 

It  was  about  six  years  after  these  events,  that  Cecil  Dormer 
again  was  seated  on  the  sofa  in  Mrs.  Clifford's  drawing-room, 
but  Rosamond  no  longer  sat  upon  his  knee.  The  rosy-cheeked 
child,  with  short  curling  hair,  short  frock,  and  ruffled  pan 
talettes,  had  disappeared,  and,  in  her  stead,  a  maiden  with 
longer  and  more  closely  fitting  robes,  smoother  and  darker 
hair,  and  cheeks  of  paler  and  more  mutable  roses.  Cecil  was 
unchanged  in  face,  but  there  was  that  in  his  air  and  manner 
which  spoke  a  higher  degree  of  elegance  and  fashion,  and  a 
deeper  acquaintance  with  the  world.  He  had  passed  several 
years  at  Paris.  Rosamond  had  been  in  the  mean  time  at  a 
distant  boarding-school,  where  Eugenia  still  remained. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  Eugenia,"  asked  Mrs. 
Clifford,  "when  she  returns?  Will  you  not  find  a  young 
female  protege*e  rather  an  embarrassing  appendage  to  a  bache 
lor's  establishment  ?" 

"  I  have  just  been  thinking  of  the  same  thing,"  replied 
Cecil.  "  I  believe  I  must  still  encroach  on  your  kindness  as 
I  was  wont  to  do  in  former  days,  and  request  you  to  receive 


THE  BOSOM   SERPENT.  217 

her  under  your  protection,  till  some  permanent  arrangement 
can  be  made  for  her  home." 

"  That  permanent  arrangement  must  be  your  own  marriage, 
I  should  presume/'  said  Mrs.  Clifford;  "and  indeed,  Cecil, 
I  wonder  that  with  your  fortune  and  rare  endowments,  you 
do  not  think  seriously  of  assuming  the  responsibility  of  a 
household." 

"  What !  the  sensible  Benedict  a  married  man  ?"  cried 
Cecil,  with  a  theatrical  start.  "  I  shall  lose  all  my  consequence 
in  society — I  shall  dwindle  down  into  complete  insignificance. 
No — I  am  not  quite  old  enough  to  be  married  yet.  I  must  act, 
too,  as  protector  and  elder  brother  to  Rosamond,  on  her  entrance 
into  the  world,  an  office  which  I  promised  to  perform,  when  I 
dandled  her  a  child  in  my  arms." 

"  I  am  sure  Rosamond  would  not  wish  to  interfere  with 
your  personal  arrangements,"  replied  Mrs.  Clifford,  in  a  tone 
of  pique — she  was  vexed  and  astonished  at  Cecil's  coldness 
and  indifference.  She  could  not  imagine  the  stoicism  which 
could  resist  the  influence  of  Rosamond's  blooming  beauty.  She 
had  looked  forward  to  their  meeting,  after  an  absence  of  years, 
as  the  moment  which  should  realize  her  long-cherished  hopes, 
and  nothing  could  be  more  provoking  than  the  nonchalance 
of  Cecil,  unless  it  was  the  warm  interest  he  manifested  in 
everything  respecting  Eugenia. 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Rosamond,  laughing,  "  I  willingly  re 
linquish  every  claim  on  your  protection,  for  Eugenia's  sake. 
Perhaps  some  one  else  will  take  pity  on  my  forlorn  condition, 
and  volunteer  as  my  champion."  Rosamond  laughed,  but 
her  voice  was  unsteady,  and  a  bright  blush  suffused  her 
cheek. 

Cecil  noticed  the  vibration  of  her  voice,  and  the  sudden 
crimson  rushing  even  to  her  temples.  Her  emotion  surprised — • 
interested  him — was  it  possible,  his  marriage  was  an  event 
capable  of  awakening  such  visible  agitation  ?  He  looked  at  her 
more  intently.  Sensibility  had  added  wonderful  charms  to 
her  features.  His  vanity  was  flattered.  He  had  been  much 
admired  in  the  world,  and  the  language  of  adulation  was 
familiar  to  his  ear.  But  here  was  a  young  girl,  in  all  the 
freshness  and  purity  of  life's  vernal  season,  incapable  of  arti 
fice,  unpractised  in  the  blandishments  of  society,  one  too  whom 
he  had  known  and  loved  as  a  beautiful  child,  and  caressed 
with  the  familiarity  of  a  brother,  who  was  paying  him  an  in 
voluntary  homage,  as  unexpected  as  it  was  fascinating.  It  was 


218  THE   BOSOM    SERPENT. 

surprising  what  a  long  train  of  images  swept  over  his  mind, 
rapid  and  dazzling  as  lightning,  called  up  by  that  deep  maiden 
blush.  How  delightful  it  would  be  to  secure  the  possession 
of  a  heart  which  had  never  yet  known  the  pulsations  of  passion, 
whose  master  chords  were  waiting  the  magic  of  his  touch  to 
respond  the  deep  music  of  feeling  and  love !  How  happy 
^Eugenia  would  be  in  the  constant  companionship  of  her 
.juvenile  benefactress,  her  schoolmate  and  friend  !  Mrs.  Clif 
ford,  too,  had  always  shown  him  the  tenderness  of  a  mother, 
and  was  so  interested  in  his  future  establishment.  Strange, 
what  slight  circumstances  sometimes  decide  the  most  solemn, 
the  most  important  events  of  life  !  The  opportune  blush  of 
Rosamond  sealed  her  own  destiny,  and  that  of  Cecil  Dormer. 
In  less  than  one  month  the  "  sensible  Benedict"  was  indeed  a 
married  man,  the  husband  of  the  young  and  happy  Rosamond. 
Seldom  indeed  was  there  a  prouder  and  happier  bride — ambi 
tion,  pride,  vanity,  love  —  all  were  gratified,  and  could  she 
have  purchased  the  lease  of  immortality  on  earth,  she  would 
have  asked  no  other  heaven.  But,  even  in  the  fulness  of 
love's  silver  honeymoon,  a  dark  cloud  rose.  The  mother,  who 
had  lived  but  for  her,  and  who  was  basking  in  the  blaze  of  her 
daughter's  prosperity,  without  one  thought  beyond  it,  was 
stricken  by  a  sudden  and  fatal  disease,  and  Rosamond's  bridal 
paraphernalia  was  changed  to  the  garments  of  mourning.  It 
was  her  first  felt  misfortune,  for  her  father  died  in  her  infancy ; 
and  the  blow  was  terrible.  At  any  other  time  it  would  have 
been  so,  but  now  this  sudden  and  startling  proof  of  mortality, 
in  the  morn  of  her  wedded  felicity,  was  chill  and  awful. 
Still  there  was  a  consolation  in  the  sympathy  of  Cecil,  that 
disarmed  sorrow  of  its  keenest  pang,  and  there  were  moments, 
when  she  felt  it  even  a  joy  to  weep,  since  her  tears  were  shed 
on  the  bosom  of  a  husband  so  passionately  loved.  The  arrival 
of  Eugenia,  a  few  weeks  after  this  melancholy  event,  turned 
her  feelings  into  a  new  channel.  Cecil  had  often  asked  of  her 
n  description  of  Eugenia,  whose  letters,  breathing  so  eloquently 
of  gratitude  and  afiection,  and  so  indicative  of  enthusiasm  and 
refinement  of  character,  had  been  a  source  of  pleasure  and 
pride  to  him.  "  If  her  person  has  improved  only  half  as  much 
is  her  mmd,"  he  would  say,  "she  cannot  be  ugly."  Rosamond, 
who  had  been  her  daily  associate,  was  hardly  sensible  of  the 
gradual  transformation  that  was  going  on  in  her  external  ap 
pearance.  The  strength  of  her  first  impression  remained,  and 
whenever  she  thought  of  Eugenia,  she  remembered  her  as  she 


THE   BOSOM   SERPENT.  219 

stood,  pale  and  hollow-eyed,  by  her  side,  before  the  mirror, 
which  gave  back  the  blooming  image  of  her  own  juvenile 
beauty.  Still,  though  she  felt  her  immeasurable  superiority 
to  this  poor,  dependent  girl,  she  was  agitated  at  her  coming, 
and  regretted  the  commanding  claims  she  had  on  her  husband's 
kindness  and  protection. 

"  Can  this  indeed  be  Eugenia  ?"  exclaimed  Cecil,  in  a  tone 
of  delighted  surprise,  when,  unbonneted  and  unshawled,  she 
stood  before  him,  tearful,  smiling,  and  agitated.  "  Rosa 
mond,  are  we  not  deceived  ?  Tell  me,  can  this  indeed  be  our 
Eugenia  ?" 

"  It  is  indeed  that  Eugenia  whom  your  bounty  has  cherished, 
the  child  whom  you" — Eugenia  paused  in  unconquerable  emo 
tion,  and  clasped  her  hands  together  with  characteristic  fervour 
and  grace.  Cecil  was  deeply  affected.  He  recollected  the 
little  girl  whose  emaciated  features  told  a  tale  of  such  un 
utterable  woe,  whose  shoulders  were  furrowed  with  bleeding 
streaks,  whose  cries  of  agony  had  pierced  the  silence  of  his 
evening  walk.  He  contrasted  the  image  drawn  on  his  remem 
brance,  with  the  figure  of  exquisite  symmetry,  the  face  moulded 
into  the  softness  of  feminine  loveliness,  the  eyes  of  such  rare 
beauty  and  lustre,  that  they  actually  illuminated  her  whole 
countenance.  His  heart  swelled  with  the  consciousness  of 
rewarded  benevolence,  it  softened  into  tenderness  towards  every 
human  being,  and  overflowed  with  a  love  for  Rosamond,  such 
as  he  had  never  felt  before.  So  true  it  is  that  the  exercise  of 
every  kind  and  generous  affection  increases  the  soul's  capacities 
for  loving,  instead  of  draining  and  impoverishing  them.  "  You 
must  henceforth  be  sisters,"  said  he,  taking  a  hand  of  each, 
and  seating  himself  between  them.  "  I  need  not  tell  you  to 
love  each  other  as  such.  I  am  sure  that  injunction  is  unneces 
sary.  But  there  is  one  task  I  must  impose  upon  you,  Rosa- 
mond.  You  must  teach  Eugenia  to  look  upon  me  as  a  brother, 
a  friend,  not  as  a  benefactor,  for  I  feel  repaid  a  thousand  times 
over,  for  all  I  have  done  for  her,  in  the  happiness  of  this 
moment.  Let  the  idea  of  obligation  be  banished  for  ever,  and 
•we  can  be  the  happiest  trio  in  the  universe,  bound  together  by 
a  threefold  and  indissoluble  cord." 

"  My  mother !"  ejaculated  Rosamond,  and  drawing  away 
ner  hand  from  her  husband,  she  covered  her  face  and  wept. 
He  reproached  himself  for  his  transient  oblivion  of  her  sorrow, 
and  in  endeavouring  to  soothe  it,  Eugenia  was  for  a  while 
forgotten.  But  he  little  dreamed  of  the  fountain  of  Rosamond's 


220  THE   BOSOM   SERPENT. 

tears.  It  would  have  been  difficult  for  herself  to  have  ana 
lyzed  the  strange  feelings  struggling  within  her.  The  bosom 
serpent,. of -whose  existence  she  had  been  previously  unconscious, 
then  wound  its  first  cold  coil  in  her  heart,  and  instead  of 
shuddering  at  its  entrance,  and  closing  its  portals  on  the  deadly 
guest,  she  allowed  it  to  wind  itself  in  its  deepest  foldings, 
where  its  hissings  and  writhings  were  no  less  terrible,  because 
unheard  and  unseen.  Rosamond  from  earliest  childhood  had 
been  the  object  of  exclusive  devotion  from  those  she  loved. 
She  had  never  known  a  sharer  in  her  mother's  love,  for  un 
happily  she  was  an  only  child.  The  undivided  fondness  of  her 
husband  had  hitherto  been  all  that  her  exacting  heart  required. 
Now,  she  must  admit  an  acknowledged  sharer  of  his  thoughts 
and  affections,  not  as  an  occasional  visiter,  but  as  an  constant 
inmate,  an  inseparable  companion.  The  hallowed  privacy  of 
the  domestic  altar  was  destroyed,  for  the  foot  of  the  stranger 
had  desecrated  it.  She  could  no  longer  appropriate  to  herself 
every  look  and  smile  of  him,  whose  glances  and  smiles  she  be 
lieved  her  own  inalienable  right.  If  she  walked  abroad, 
another  beside  herself,  must  henceforth  lean  upon  his  arm. 
If  she  remained  at  home,  another  must  also  be  seated  at  his 
side.  And  this  invasion  of  her  most  precious  immunities,  was 
not  to  be  endured  for  a  short  season,  for  weeks  or  months, 
but  years,  perhaps  for  life.  These  new  and  evil  anticipations 
swept  darkly  across  the  troubled  surface  of  Rosamond's  mind, 
as  she  gazed  on  the  varying  countenance  of  Eugenia,  and 
wondered  she  had  never  thought  her  handsome  before.  The 
gratitude  and  sensibility  that  beamed  from  her  eyes  whenever 
they  turned  on  her  benefactor,  seemed  to  her  diseased  imagina 
tion  the  harbingers  of  a  warmer  emotion,  and  the  constitu 
tional  ardour  and  frankness  of  her  expressions  were  indicative 
of  the  most  dangerous  of  characters.  It  was  well  for  Rosamond 
that  the  recent  death  of  her  mother  was  a  legitimate  excuse 
for  her  pensiveness  and  gloom,  as  the  incipient  stage  of  the 
malady  that  was  beginning  to  steal  into  her  soul  must  other 
wise  have  been  perceived.  Cecil,  frank,  confident,  and  un 
suspecting,  never  dreamed  that  every  attention  bestowed  on 
Eugenia  was  considered  as  a  robbery  to  herself.  Eugenia, 
warni-hearted,  impulsive,  and  grateful,  as  little  imagined  that 
the  overflowings  of  her  gratitude  were  construed  into  feelings 
she  would  have  blushed  to  have  cherished.  Cecil  was  passion 
ately  fond  of  music.  Since  her  mother's  death,  Rosamond 
could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  touch  the  keys  of  the  instru- 


THE   BOSOM   SERPENT.  221 

rnent,  and  he  was  too  kind  to  urge  upon  her  a  task  repugnant 
to  her  feelings.  But  when  Eugenia  discovered  that  she  pos 
sessed  an  accomplishment  capable  of  imparting  pleasure  to  him 
who  had  given  her  the  means  of  acquiring  it,  she  was  never 
weary  of  exercising  it.  She  sang  too  with  rare  sweetness  and 
power,  and  never  refused  to  sing  the  songs  that  Cecil  loved 
to  hear.  Rosamond  could  not  sing.  She  had  never  mourned 
over  this  deficiency  before,  but  now  she  could  not  bear  to  think 
that  another  should  impart  a  pleasure  to  her  husband,  she  had 
not  the  means  of  bestowing.  She  forgot  that  she  had  selfishly 
denied  to  gratify  his  taste,  in  the  way  she  had  the  power  of 
doing,  because  it  would  have  interrupted  the  indulgence  of  her 
filial  grief.  Another  thing  deeply  wounded  Rosamond's  feel 
ings  :  always  accustomed  to  being  waited  upon  by  others,  to 
have  all  her  wishes  anticipated,  she  never  thought  of  showing 
her  love  by  those  active  manifestations  which  most  men  love 
to  receive.  She  would  have  laid  down  her  life  for  her  hus 
band,  if  the  sacrifice  were  required,  but  she  never  thought  of 
offering  him  a  glass  of  water  with  her  own  hand,  because  it 
was  the  office  of  the  servants  to  supply  his  recurring  wants. 
Never  till  she  saw  these  attentions  bestowed  by  another  who 
was  not  a  menial,  did  she  imagine  that  affection  could  give  an 
added  relish,  even  to  a  cup  of  cold  water,  when  offered  to  the 
thirsty  lip.  One  warm,  sultry  day,  Cecil  entered  after  a  long 
walk,  and  throwing  himself  on  a  sofa  exclaimed,  "  Give  me 
some  drink,  Titania — for  I  faint — even  as  a  sick  girl."  Rosa 
mond  smiled  at  his  theatrical  assumption  of  Caesar's  dignity, 
and  reaching  out  her  hand,  rang  the  bell.  Eugenia  flew  out 
of  the  room,  and  returned  long  before  a  servant  could  answer 
the  summons,  with  a  glass  of  water,  and  bending  one  knee  to 
the  ground,  with  sportive  grace  she  offered  it  to  his  accept- 
.ance. 

"  Eugenia !"  cried  Rosamond,  colouring  very  high,  u  we 
have  no  lack  of  servants.  I  am  sure  there  is  no  necessity  of 
your  assuming  such  a  trouble." 

"  Oh !  but  it  is  such  a  pleasure !"  exclaimed  Eugenia, 
springing  up,  and  placing  the  empty  glass  on  the  sideboard. 
"  It  is  all  I  can  do.  You  would  not  deprive  me  of  the  privi 
lege  if  you  knew  how  dearly  I  prize  it." 

Had  Cecil  observed  the  heightened  colour  of  Rosamond,  he 

might  have  conjectured  that  all  was  not  right  in  her  bosom, 

but  she  sat  in  the  shadow  of  a  curtain,  and  her  emotion  was 

anperceived.     A  few  evenings  afterwards,  they  were  walking 

115 


222  THE    BOSOM    SERPENT. 

together,  when  they  met  a  woman  bustling  through  the  streets, 
with  her  arm  a-kimbo,  and  an  air  of  boldness  and  defiance, 
that  spoke  the  determined  Amazon.  Eugenia  clung  closely 
to  Cecil's  arm  as  she  approached,  and  turned  deadly  pale; 
she  recognised  in  those  stony  eyes  and  iron  features  the  dreaded 
Mrs.  Grundy,  the  tyrant  of  her  desolate  childhood,  and  she 
felt  as  if  the  thong  were  again  descending  on  her  quivering 
flesh,  and  the  iron  again  entering  into  her  soul.  Such  a  rush 
of  painful  recollections  came  over  her,  she  was  obliged  to  leau 
against  a  railing  for  support,  while  Cecil,  who  saw  what  was 
the  cause  of  her  agitation,  gave  a  stern  glance  at  the  woman, 
who  had  stopped,  and  was  gazing  in  her  face  with  an  undaunted 
stare. 

"  Heyday  !"  cried  she,  "  who's  this  ?  'Tisn't  Griny,  sure 
enough  ?  I  never  should  have  thought  of  such  a  thing,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  gentleman.  Well !  can't  you  speak  to  a 
body,  now  you  have  got  to  be  such  a  fine  lady  ?  This  is  all  the 
gratitude  one  gets  in  the  world." 

"  Gratitude !"  repeated  Cecil,  "  how  dare  you  talk  of 
gratitude  to  her,  before  me  ?  Pass  on  and  leave  her,  and  be 
thankful  that  your  sex  shields  you  a  second  time  from  my 
indignation." 

"  Well  you  needn't  bristle  up  so,  sir,"  cried  she,  with  a  sneer. 
"  I'm  not  going  to  kill  her.  I  suppose  you've  got  married  to 
her  by  this  time.  But  you'd  better  look  sharp,  lest  she  gets 
into  a  rambling  way,  as  her  mother  did  before  her."  With  a 
malignant  laugh  the  virago  passed  on,  delighted  to  find  that 
she  had  drawn  quite  a  crowd  to  the  spot  where  Eugenia  still 
leaned,  incapable  of  motion,  and  Rosamond  stood,  pale  as  a 
statue,  brooding  over  the  words  of  the  woman,  as  if,  like  a  Del 
phian  priestess,  she  had  uttered  the  oracles  of  fate. 

"  Why  should  she  imagine  her  to  be  his  wife,"  whispered 
the  bosom  serpent,  subtle  as  its  arch  prototype  in  the  bowers 
of  Eden,  "  if  she  had  not  witnessed  in  him  evidences  of  tender 
ness,  such  as  a  husband  only  should  bestow  ?  That  random 
sentence  spoke  volumes,  and  justifies  thy  fearful  suspicions. 
Alas  for  thee,  Rosamond  !  The  young  blossoms  of  thy  happi 
ness  are  blighted  in  the  sweet  springtime  of  their  bloom.  There 
is  no  more  greenness  or  fragrance  for  thee — better  that  thou 
hadst  died,  and  been  laid  by  thy  mother's  side,  thun  live  to 
experience  the  bitter  pangs  of  deceived  confidence  and  unre 
quited  love." 

Cecil,  unconscious  of  the  secret  enemy  that  was  operating 


THE  BOSOM   SERPENT.  223 

eo  powev/ully  against  him  in  the  breast  of  Rosamond,  wondeied 
at  her  coldness  to  Eugenia;  a  coldness  which  became  every 
day  more  apparent,  and  was  even  assuming  the  character  of 
dislike.  It  bCtmed  so  natural  in  one  so  young  and  affectionate 
as  Rosamond,  io  wind  her  affections  round  a  being  of  corre 
sponding  youth  and  sensibility,  so  foreign  to  her  gentle  nature 
to  treat  one  entiioly  dependent  on  her  kindness,  with  such 
reserve  and  distrust — ie  wondered,  regretted,  and  at  length 
remonstrated.  Eugen»a  had  just  anticipated  a  servant's  move 
ments  in  bringing  him  d  book  from  the  library,  which  he 
expressed  a  desire  to  see,  And  he  had  taken  it  from  her  hand 
with  a  smile  of  acknowledgment,  when  the  instantaneous 
change  in  the  countenance  ol  Rosamond  arrested  his  attention. 
It  was  so  chilling,  so  inexplictille,  he  dropped  the  book  to  the 
ground  in  his  confusion,  which  Eugenia,  with  her  usual  grace 
ful  readiness,  again  lifted  and  laid  upon  his  knee.  In  raising 
her  face  from  her  bending  positiou,  she  encountered  the  glance 
of  Rosamond,  which  seemed  to  ha^e  upon  her  the  momentary 
effect  of  fascination.  She  stood  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot, 
gazing  steadfastly  on  her,  then  with  a  cheek  as  hueless  aa 
ashes,  turned  and  precipitately  left  tke  apartment.  Cecil  and 
Rosamond  looked  at  each  other  without  speaking.  Never  had 
they  exchanged  such  a  look  before.  "  Good  heavens  I"  he 
exclaimed,  rising  and  walking  two  o*  three  times  across  the 
apartment,  with  a  resounding  tread.  "  Good  heavens  !  what 
a  transformation !  I  must  know  the  cause  of  it.  Tell  ine, 
Rosamond,  and  tell  me  truly  and  undeservedly,  what  means 
your  mysterious  and  unkind  behaviour  to  one  who  never  can 
have  offended  you  ?  What  has  Eugenia  done  to  .forfeit  your 
affection  as  a  friend,  your  consideration  as  a  guest,  your  respect 
to  the  claims  of  your  husband's  adopted  sister  ?" 

"  It  were  far  better  to  subject  your  own  heart  and  conscience 
to  this  stern  inquisition,  than  mine,  Cecil/'  replied  Rosamond 
bitterly.  "  Had  you  informed  me  sooner  of  the  length  and 
breadth  of  my  duties,  I  might  have  fulfilled  them  better 
I  did  not  know,  when  Eugenia  was  received  into  our  house 
hold,  how  overwhelming  were  her  claims.  I  did  not  know 
that  I  was  expected  to  exalt  her  happiness  on  the  ruins  of  my 
own." 

"  Rosamond  !  Rosamond  !"  interrupted  Cecil,  vehemently 
— "  Beware  what  you  say — beware  lest  you  strike  a  death 
blow  to  our  wedded  love.  I  can  bear  anything  in  the  world 
but  suspicion.  Every  feeling  of  my  heart  has  been  laid 


224  THE   BOSOM   SERPENT. 

before  you.  There  is  not  a  thought  that  is  not  as  open  to  your 
scrutiny  as  the  heavens  in  the  blaze  of  noonday.  How  unworthy 
of  yourself,  how  disgraceful  to  me,  how  wounding  to  Eugenia, 
this  unjustifiable  conduct !" 

Every  chord  of  Rosamond's  heart  quivered  with  agony  at 
this  burst  of  indignant  feeling  from  lips  which  had  never 
before  addressed  her  but  in  mild  and  persuasive  tones.  Had 
he  wealth  of  worlds  been  laid  at  her  feet,  she  would  have 
given  it  to  recall  the  last  words  she  had  uttered.  Still,  in  the 
midst  of  her  remorse  and  horror,  she  felt  the  overmastering 
influence  of  her  imagined  wrongs,  and  that  influence  triumphed 
over  the  suggestions  of  reason  and  the  admonitions  of  pru 
dence. 

"It  is  ungenerous — it  is  unmanly,"  she  cried,  "to  force 
me  into  the  confession  of  sentiments  which  you  blame  me  for 
declaring — I  had  said  nothing,  done  nothing — yet  you  arraign 
me  before  the  bar  of  inexorable  justice,  as  the  champion  of  the 
injured  Eugenia.  If  the  sincerity  of  my  countenance  offends 
you,  it  is  my  misfortune,  not  my  fault.  I  cannot  smile  on  the 
boldness  I  condemn,  or  the  arts  I  despise." 

"  Boldness  !  arts  !"  repeated  Cecil.  "  If  there  was  ever  an 
unaffected,  impulsive  child  of  nature,  it  is  she  whom  you  so 
deeply  wrong;  but  you  wrong  yourself  far  more.  You  let 
yourself  down  from  the  high  station  where  I  had  enthroned 
you,  and  paid  you  a  homage  scarcely  inferior  to  an  angel  of 
light.  You  make  me  an  alien  from  your  bosom,  and  nourish 
there  a  serpent  which  will  wind  you  deeper  and  deeper  in  its 
envenomed  folds,  till  your  heart-strings  are  crushed  beneath  its 
coils." 

"  I  am  indeed  most  wretched,"  exclaimed  Rosamond ;  "  and 
if  I  have  made  myself  so,  I  deserve  pity  rather  than  upbraid 
ing.  Cecil,  you  never  could  have  loved  me,  or  you  would  not 
so  lightly  cast  me  from  you." 

Cecil,  who  had  snatched  up  his  hat,  and  laid  his  hand  on 
the  latch  of  the  door,  turned  at  the  altered  tone  of  her  voice. 
Tears,  which  she  vainly  endeavoured  to  hide,  gushed  from  her 
eyes,  and  stole  down  her  colourless  cheeks. 

"  Rosamond,"  said  he,  in  a  softened  tone,  approaching  her 
as  he  spoke,  "  if  you  believe  what  you  last  uttered,  turn  away 
from  me,  and  let  us  henceforth  be  strangers  to  each  other;  — 
but  if  your  heart  belies  their  meaning,  if  you  can  restore  me 
the  confidence  you  have  withdrawn,  and  which  is  my  just  due, 
if  you  are  willing  to  rely  unwaveringly  on  my  integrity,  my 


THE  BOSOM   SERPENT.  225 

honour,  and  my  love,  come  to  my  arms  once  more,  and  they 
shall  shelter  you  through  life  with  unabated  tenderness  and 
undivided  devotion." 

Poor,  foolish  Rosamond  !  she  had  wrought  herself  up  to  a 
state  bordering  on  despair,  and  the  revulsion  of  her  feelings 
was  so  great  that  she  almost  fainted  in  the  arms  that  opened 
to  enfold  her.  Her  folly,  her  madness,  her  injustice  and 
alfishness  stared  her  so  fearfully  in  the  face,  she  was  appalled 
nd  self-condemned.  Like  the  base  Judean,  she  had  been 
about  to  throw  away  from  her  "  a  gem  richer  than  all  its  tribe," 
a  gem  of  whose  priceless  worth  she  had  never  till  this  moment 
been  fully  conscious.  She  made  the  most  solemn  resolutions 
for  the  future,  invoking  upon  herself  the  most  awful  penalties 
if  she  ever  again  yielded  to  a  passion  so  degrading.  But  pas 
sion  once  admitted  is  not  so  easily  dispossessed  of  its  hold. 
Every  self-relying  effort  is  but  a  flaxen  withe  bound  round  the 
slumbering  giant,  broken  in  the  first  grasp  of  temptation. 
Jealousy  is  that  demon,  whose  name  is  Legion,  which  flies 
from  the  rebuking  voice  of  Omnipotence  alone.  Rosamond 
did  not  say,  "  If  God  give  me  strength,  I  will  triumph  over 
my  indwelling  enemy."  She  said,  "  The  tempter  shall  seek 
me  in  vain — I  am  strong,  and  I  defy  its  power."  Rosamond 
was  once  more  happy,  but  she  had  planted  a  thorn  in  the 
bosom  of  another,  sharp,  deep,  and  rankling.  No  after  kind 
ness  could  obliterate  the  remembrance  of  that  involuntary, 
piercing  glance.  It  was  but  the  sheathing  of  a  weapon. 
Eugenia  felt  that  the  cold  steel  was  still  lurking  in  the  scab 
bard,  ready  to  flash  forth  at  the  bidding  of  passion.  A  few 
evenings  after  the  scene  just  described,  when  she  had  been 
playing  and  singing  some  of  Cecil's  favourite  songs,  at  the 
magnanimous  request  of  Rosamond,  she  turned  suddenly  to 
Cecil  and  said — 

"  I  think  I  overheard  a  friend  of  yours  say  to  you  the  other 
"lay,  that  I  might  make  my  fortune  on  the  stage.  Now," 
added  she,  blushing,  "  I  do  not  wish  to  go  upon  the  stage,  but  it 
iny  musical  talents  could  give  me  distinction  there,  they  migh 
be  made  useful  in  the  domestic  circle.  I  have  been  told  of  a 
lady  who  wishes  an  instructress  for  her  daughters.  Suffer  me 
to  offer  myself  for  the  situation.  If  through  your  bounty  I  am 
possessed  of  accomplishments  which  may  be  subservient  to 
myself  or  others,  is  it  not  my  duty  to  exercise  them  ?  I  should 
have  done  this  sooner — I  have  been  too  long  an  idler." 

"  Nc,  no,  Eugenia,"  said  Rosamond,  warmly,  every  good 


226  THE  BOSOM   SERPENT. 

and  generous  feeling  of  her  heart  in  full  and  energetic  opera 
tion — "  we  can  never  sanction  such  a  proposition.  Is  not  this 
your  home  as  well  as  mine  ?  Are  you  not  our  sister  ?  Re 
member  the  threefold  cord  that  never  was  to  be  broken."  She 
pressed  Eugenia's  hand  in  both  her  own,  and  continued,  in  a 
trembling  voice — "  If  I  have  ever  seemed  cold  or  unkind,  for 
give  me,  Eugenia,  for  I  believe  I  am  a  strange,  fitful  being.  You 
found  me  a  sad  mourner  over  the  grave  of  my  mother,  with 
weakened  nerves  and  morbid  sensibilities.  My  mind  is  getting 
a  healthier  tone.  Remain  with  us — we  shall  be  happier  by 
and  by." 

Completely  overcome  by  this  unexpected  and  candid  avowal, 
Eugenia  threw  her  arms  round  Rosamond's  neck,  and  exclaimed 
— "  I  shall  be  the  happiest  being  in  the  world,  if  you  indeed 
love  me.  I  have  no  one  else  in  the  world  to  love  but  you  and 
my  benefactor." 

Cecil  felt  as  if  he  could  have  prostrated  himself  at  Rosa 
mond's  feet,  and  thanked  her  for  her  noble  and  generous  con 
duct.  He  had  waited  in  trembling  eagerness  for  her  reply. 
It  was  more  than  he  expected.  It  was  all  he  wished  or  re 
quired. 

"  Be  but  true  to  yourself,  my  beloved  Rosamond,"  said  he, 
when  he  was  alone  with  her,  "  and  you  can  never  be  unjust 
to  me.  Continue  in  the  path  you  have  now  marked  out,  and 
you  shall  be  repaid  not  only  with  my  warmest  love,  but  with 
my  respect,  my  admiration,  and  my  gratitude." 

Thus  encouraged,  Rosamond  felt  new  life  flowing  in  her 
veins.  Though  she  could  not  sing  according  to  scientific 
vules,  her  buoyant  spirit  burst  forth  in  warbling  notes,  as  she 
moved  about  her  household  duties,  with  light,  bounding  steps, 
rejoicing  in  the  consciousness  of  recovered  reason.  Week 
after  week  glided  away,  without  any  circumstance  arising  to 
remind  them  of  the  past.  Indeed  all  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
that  anything  had  ever  disturbed  their  domestic  peace. 

"  Oh  !  what  beautiful  flowers !"  exclaimed  Rosamond,  as, 
riding  with  her  husband,  on  a  lovely  autumnal  evening,  they 
passed  a  public  garden,  ornamented  with  the  last  flowers  of 
the  season.  "  I  wish  I  had  some  of  them.  There  are  the 
emblems  of  love,  constancy,  and  devotion.  If  I  had  them  now. 
I  would  bind  them  on  my  heart,  in  remembrance  of  this  en 
chanting  ride." 

"  You  shall  have  them  speedily,  dear  Rosamond,"  replied  he, 


THE  BOSOM   SERPENT.  227 

"  even  if,  like  the  gallant  knight  who  named  the  sweet  flower 
Forget-me-not,  I  sacrifice  my  life  to  purchase  them." 

Rosamond  little  thought  those  flowers,  sought  with  such 
childish  earnestness,  and  promised  with  such  sportive  gallantry, 
were  destined  to  be  so  fatal  to  her  newly  acquired  serenity. 
As  soon  as  they  reached  home,  Cecil  returned  to  seek  the 
flowers  which  Rosamond  desired,  and  selecting  the  most  beau 
tiful  the  garden  afforded,  brought  them  with  as  much  enthusiasm 
of  feeling  as  if  it  were  the  bridegroom's  first  gift.  When  he 
entered  the  room  Eugenia  was  alone,  Rosamond  being  still  en 
gaged  in  changing  her  riding  apparel. 

"  Oh  !  what  an  exquisitely  beautiful  nosegay,"  cried  Euge 
nia,  involuntarily  stretching  out  her  hand — u  how  rich,  how 
fragrant !" 

"Yes!  I  knew  you  would  admire  them,"  he  replied — "I 

brought  them  expressly  for "  Rosamond,  he  was  just 

going  to  add,  when  he  was  suddenly  called  out,  leaving  the 
flowers  in  the  hand  of  Eugenia,  and  the  unfinished  sentence 
in  her  ear.  Not  knowing  anything  of  their  appropriation, 
Eugenia  believed  the  bouquet  a  gift  to  herself,  and  she 
stood  turning  them  to  the  light  in  every  direction,  gazing  on 
their  rainbow  hues  with  sparkling  eyes,  when  Rosamond  en 
tered  the  apartment,  with  a  cheek  glowing  like  the  roses  before 
her. 

"See  what  beautiful  flowers  your  husband  has  just  given 
me,"  cried  Eugenia — "be  must  have  been  endowed  with  second 
sight,  for  I  was  just  yearning  after  such  a  bouquet." 

Had  Rosamond  beheld  the  leaves  of  the  B  >hon-Upas,  instead 
of  the  blossoms  she  loved,  she  could  not  have  experienced  a 
more  sickening  sensation.  She  had  bagged  for  those  flowers 
— she  had  pointed  out  their  emblematic  beauties — had  pro 
mised  to  bind  them  to  her  heart,  and  yet  they  were  wantonly 
bestowed  on  another,  as  if  in  defiance  of  her  former  wretched 
ness.  She  grew  dizzy  from  the  rapidity  of  the  thoughts  that 
whirled  through  her  brain,  and  leaning  against  the  mantel 
piece,  pressed  her  hand  upon  her  head. 

"  You  are  ill,  dear  Rosamond,"  cried  Eugenia,  springing 
towards  her — "  lean  on  me — you  are  pale  and  faint." 

Rosamond  recoiled  from  her  touch,  as  if  a  viper  were 
crawling  over  her.  She  had  lost  the  power  of  self-control,  and 
the  passion  that  was  threatening  to  suffocate  her,  found  vent 
in  language. 

"  Leave  me,"  cried  she,  "if  you  would  not  drive  me  mad. 


228  THE   BOSOM   SERPENT. 

You  have  destroyed  the  peace  of  ray  whole  life.  You  have 
stolen  like  a  serpent  into  my  domestic  bower,  aud  robbed  me 
of  the  affections  of  a  once  doting  husband.  Take  them  openly, 
if  you  will,  and  triumph  in  the  possession  of  your  ill-gotten 
treasure." 

"  Rosamond  !"  uttered  a  deep,  low  voice  behind  her.  She 
started,  turned,  and  beheld  her  husband  standing  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  pale,  dark  and  stern  as  the  judge  who 
pronounces  the  doom  of  the  transgressor.  Eugenia,  who  had 
dropped  the  flowers  at  the  commencement  of  Rosamond's 
indignant  accusation,  with  a  wild,  bewildered  countenance, 
which  kindled  as  she  proceeded,  now  met  her  scorching 
glance,  with  eyes  that  literally  flashed  fire.  Her  temple  veins 
swelled,  her  lip  quivered,  every  feature  was  eloquent  with 
scorn. 

"Rosamond,"  said  she,  "you  have  banished  me  for  ever. 
You  have  cruelly,  wantonly,  causelessly  insulted  me."  She 
walked  rapidly  to  the  door,  where  Cecil  yet  stood,  and  glided 
by  him  before  he  could  intercept  her  passage.  Then  suddenly 
returning,  she  snatched  his  hand,  and  pressed  it  to  her  fore 
head  and  to  her  lips. 

"  My  benefactor,  brother,  friend  !"  cried  she,  "  may  Heaven 
for  ever  bless  thee,  even  as  thou  hast  blessed  me !" 

"  Stay,  Eugenia,  stay  !"  be  exclaimed,  endeavouring  to  detain 
her — but  it  was  too  late.  He  heard  her  footsteps  on  the  stairs, 
and  the  door  of  her  chamber  hastily  close,  and  he  knew  he 
could  not  follow  her. 

"  Rash,  infatuated  girl !"  cried  he,  turning  to  Rosamond, 
"  what  have  you  done  ?  At  a  moment  too  when  my  whole 
heart  was  overflowing  with  tenderness  and  love  towards  you. 
Remember,  if  you  banish  Eugenia  from  the  shelter  of  my  roof, 
I  am  bound  by  every  tie  of  honour  and  humanity  still  to  protect 
and  cherish  her." 

"I  know  it  well,"  replied  Rosamond;  "I  remember  too 
that  it  was  to  give  a  home  to  Eugenia  you  first  consented  to 
bind  yourself  by  marriage  vows.  That  home  may  still  be  hers. 
I  am  calm  now,  Cecil — you  see  I  can  speak  calmly.  The  cer 
tainty  of  a  misfortune  gives  the  spirit  and  the  power  of  en 
durance.  Those  flowers  are  trifles  in  themselves,  but  they 
contain  a  world  of  meaning." 

"  These  worthless  flowers !"  exclaimed  Cecil,  trampling 
them  under  his  feet  till  their  bright  leaves  lay  a  soiled  and 
indistinguishable  mags—"  and  have  these  raised  the  whirlwind 


THE  BOSOM   SERPENT.  229 

of  jealous  passion  ?  These  fading  playthings,  left  for  a  mo 
ment  in  another's  keeping,  accidentally  left,  to  be  immediately 
reclaimed !" 

"  You  gave  them  to  her — with  her  own  lips  she  told  me — 
rapture  sparkling  in  her  eyes." 

"  It  was  all  a  misunderstanding — an  innocent  mistake.  Oh, 
Rosamond  !  for  a  trifle  like  this  you  could  forget  all  my  faith 
and  affection,  every  feeling  which  should  be  sacred  in  your 
eyes — forget  your  woman's  gentleness,  and  utter  words  which 
seem  branded  in  my  heart  and  brain  in  burning  and  indelible 
characters.  I  dare  not  go  on.  I  shall  say  what  I  may  bitterly 
repent.  I  wish  you  no  punishment  greater  than  your  own 
reflections." 

Rosamond  listened  to  his  retreating  footsteps,  she  heard 
the  outer  door  heavily  close,  and  the  sound  fell  on  her  ear 
like  the  first  fall  of  the  damp  clods  on  the  cofiin,  the  signal  of 
mortal  separation.  She  remained  pale  as  a  statue,  gazing  on 
the  withering  flowers,  counting  the  quick  beatings  of  her  lonely 
heart,  believing  herself  doomed  to  a  widowhood  more  cruel 
than  that  the  grave  creates.  Cecil's  simple  explanation, 
stamped  with  the  dignity  of  truth,  had  roused  her  from  the 
delirium  of  passion,  and  seeing  her  conduct  in  its  true  light, 
she  shuddered  at  the  review.  Her  head  ached  to  agony — one 
moment  she  shivered  with  cold,  the  next  the  blood  in  her  veins 
seemed  changed  to  molten  lead.  "  I  feel  very  strangely," 
thought  she — "  perhaps  I  am  going  to  die,  and  when  I  am 
dead,  he  will  pity  and  forgive  me."  She  had  barely  strength 
to  seek  her  own  chamber,  where,  throwing  herself  on  the  bed, 
she  lay  till  the  shades  of  night  darkened  around  her,  conscious 
of  but  one  wish,  that  her  bed  might  prove  her  grave,  and 
Cecil,  melted  by  her  early  fate,  might  shed  one  tear  of  forgive 
ness  over  the  icy  lips  that  never  more  could  open  to  offend. 
The  bell  rang  for  supper — she  heeded  not  the  summons.  A 
servant  came  to  tell  her  that  Mr.  Dormer  was  below.  Her 
heart  bounded,  but  she  remained  immovable.  Again  the 
ervant  came. 

"  Shall  I  make  tea  for  Mr.  Dormer  ?"  she  asked.  "  Miss 
Eugenia  is  gone  out." 

Rosamond  started  up,  and  leaned  on  her  elbow.  "  Gone  !" 
repeated  she,  wildly — "  when  ?  where  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am,"  replied  the  girl ;  "  she  put  on  her 
bonnet  and  shawl  an  hour  ago  and  went  out  through  the  back 
gate." 


230  THE   BOSOM    SERPENT. 

"  Does  Mr.  Dormer  know  it  ?"  asked  Rosamond  faintly. 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am — he  has  just  come  in,"  was  the  reply. 
— "  I  saw  him  reading  a  note  he  found  on  the  table  in  the 
hall,  and  he  seemed  mightily  flustered." 

There  was  an  insolent  curiosity  in  the  countenance  of  tlie 

girl,  who  had  hitherto  been  respectful  and  submissive.     She 

laced  the  lamp  near    the  bedside  and  left  the  mom ;  and 

Imost  simultaneously,  Cecil  entered,  with  an  open  note  in  his 

.  and,  which  he  threw  upon  the  bed  without  speaking.     She 

seized  it  mechanically,  and  attempted  to  read  it,  but  the  letters 

seemed  to  move  and  emit  electric  sparks,   flashing  on   her 

aching  eyeballs.     It  was  with  difficulty  that  she  deciphered 

the    following    lines,   written    evidently   with    a   trembling 

hand  : — 

"  Farewell,  kindest,  noblest,  and  best  of  friends  !  May  the 
happiness  which  I  have  unconsciously  blighted,  revive  in  my 
absence.  I  go,  sustained  by  the  strength  of  a  virtuous  resolu, 
tion,  not  the  excitement  of  indignant  passion.  The  influence 
of  your  bounty  remains,  and  will  furnish  me  an  adequate 
support.  Seek  not,  I  pray  you,  to  find  the  place  of  my  abode. 
The  Heaven  in  which  I  trust  will  protect  me.  Farewell — 
deluded,  but  still  beloved  Rosamond  !  Your  injustice  shall 
be  forgotten,  your  benefits  remembered  for  ever." 

Rosamond  dropped  the  letter,  cast  one  glance  towards  her 
husband,  who  stood  with  folded  arms,  pale  and  immovable,  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  then  sinking  back  upon  her  pillow,  a  mist 
same  over  her  eyes,  and  all  was  darkness. 

When  she  again  recovered  the  consciousness  of  her  exist 
ence,  she  found  herself  in  a  darkened  chamber,  the  curtains 
of  her  bed  closely  drawn,  saving  a  small  aperture,  through 
which  she  could  perceive  a  neat,  matronly  figure,  moving  with 
soft,  careful  steps,  and  occasionally  glancing  anxiously  towards 
the  bed.  She  attempted  to  raise  herself  on  her  elbow,  but  she 
had  not  strength  to  lift  her  head  from  the  pillow ;  she  could 
scarcely  carry  her  feeble  hand  to  her  forehead,  to  put  back  the 
moist  hair  which  fell  heavily  over  her  brow. 

"  How  weak  I  am  !"  said  she  faintly.  "  How  long  have  I 
slept  ?" 

"  Be  composed,"  said  the  stranger,  approaching  her  gently, 
"and  do  not  speak.  You  have  been  very  ill.  Everything 
depends  on  your  keeping  perfectly  quiet." 

Rosamond  began  to  tremble  violently  as  she  gazed  up  in 
the  stranger's  face.  Why  was  she  committed  to  her  charge  ? 


THE  BOSOM   SERPENT. 

Was  she  forsaken  by  him  whom  awakening  memory  brought 
before  her  as  an  injured  and  perhaps  avenging  husband  ? 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  cried  she,  in  a  voice  so  low,  the  woman 
bent  her  ear  to  her  lips,  to  hear. 

"  The  doctor  ?"  replied  she.  "  Oh,  he  will  soon  be  here. 
He  said  if  you  waked,  no  one  must  come  near  you,  and  you 
must  not  be  allowed  to  speak  one  word.  It  might  cost  you 
your  life." 

Rosamond  tried  to  gasp  out  her  husband's  name,  but  her 
parched  lips  were  incapable  of  further  articulation.     Her  eyes 
closed  from  exhaustion,  and  the  nurse,  supposing  she  slept, 
drew  the  curtains  closer,  and  moved  on  tiptoe  to  the  window. 
At  length  the  door  slowly  opened,  and  the  footstep  of  a  man 
entered  the  room.     Rosamond  knew  it  was  not  her  husband's 
step,  and  such  a  cold  feeling  fell  on  her  heart,  she  thought  it 
the  precursor  of  death.     She  heard  a  whispered  conversation 
which  set  every  nerve  throbbing  with  agony.    Then  the  cur 
tains  were  withdrawn,  and  she  felt  a  stranger's  hand  counting 
the  pulsations  of  her  chilled  veins.     "  I  am  forsaken,"  thought 
she,  "  even  in  my  dying  hour.     Oh  God  !  it  is  just."    Again 
the  chamber  was  still,  and  she  must  have  fallen  into  a  deep 
slumber,  for  when  she  again  opened  her  eyes,  she  saw  a  lamp 
glimmering  through  the  curtains,  and  the  shadow  of  her  nurse 
reflected  in  them,  seated  at  a  table,  reading.     She  was  reading 
aloud,  though  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  fearful  of  disturbing  the 
slumbers  she  was  watching.      Rosamond  caught  the  sound, 
"  I  the  Lord  thy  God  am  a  jealous  God."     She  repeated  it 
to   herself,  and  it  gave  her  an  awful  sensation.     The  com 
manding  claims  of  her  Maker  upon  her  affections,  for  the  first 
time  rose  before  her  in  all  their  height,  depth,  power,  and 
majesty.    "  A  jealous  God  I"    How  tremendous,  how  appalling 
the  idea.     If  she,  a  poor  worm  of  the  dust,  was  so  severe  and 
uncompromising  in  her  demands  upon  a  fellow  being,  what 
terrible  exactions  might  a  neglected  Deity  make  from  the  crea 
ture  he  had  formed  for  his  glory  ?    She  remembered  the  com 
mand  from  which  that  fearful  sentence  was  extracted.     She 
had  broken  it,  trampled  it  under  her  feet.     She  had  bowed 
down  in  adoration  to  an  earthly  idol,  and  robbed  her  God,  her 
jealous  God,  of  the  homage  due  to  his  august  name.     The 
light  that  poured  in  upon  her  conscience  was  like  the  blazing 
of  a  torch  through  a  dark  mine.     She  bad  felt  before  the 
madness  of  her  bosom  passion,  she  now  felt  its  sin  and  its 
sacrilege.     "I  am  forsaken,"  again  repeated  she  to  herself, 


232  THE  BOSOM   SERPENT. 

"  but  I  had  first  forsaken  thee,  0  my  God !  Thou  art  draw 
ing  me  home  unto  thee."  Tears  gathering  thick  and  fast, 
fell  down  her  pale  cheeks,  till  the  pillow  they  pressed  was  wet 
as  with  rain-drops.  She  wept  long,  and  without  one  effort 
to  restrain  the  gushing  forth  of  her  melting  heart,  .when 
exhausted  nature  once  more  sought  relief  in  sleep.  Her  first 
consciousness,  on  awakening,  was  of  a  soft  hand  laid  gently  on 
her  brow,  a  warm  breath  stealing  over  her  cheek,  and  a  trem 
bling  lip  gently  pressed  upon  her  own.  Had  she  awakened  in 
the  abodes  of  the  blest,  in  the  midst  of  the  hierarchy  of  heaven, 
she  could  hardly  have  experienced  a  deeper  rapture  than  that, 
which  flooded  her  breast.  Slowly,  as  if  fearing  to  banish  by  the 
act  the  image  drawn  on  her  now  glowing  heart,  she  lifted  her 
eyes,  and  met  the  eyes  of  her  husband  looking  down  upon  her, 
no  longer  stern  and  upbraiding,  but  softened  into  woman's 
tenderness.  The  next  moment  he  was  kneeling  by  the  bed 
side,  his  face  buried  in  the  covering,  which  shook  from  the 
strong  emotion  it  concealed. 

When  Rosamond  learned  that  Cecil,  instead  of  having'  left 
her  to  her  bitter  consequences  of  her  rashness,  in  just  and  un 
appeasable  resentment,  had  never  left  her  in  her  unconscious 
ness,  and  since  her  restoration  to  reason  had  hovered  near  the 
threshold  of  her  chamber  day  and  night,  forbidden  to  enter, 
lest  his  presence  should  produce  an  agitation  fatal  to  a  frame 
apparently  trembling  on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  she  again  re 
proached  herself  for  believing  he  could  have  been  capable  of 
such  unrelenting  cruelty.  When  she  was  assured  too  that 
Eugenia  was  safe  under  the  protection  of  an  early  friend, 
whom  she  had  most  unexpectedly  encountered,  and  only 
waited  a  passport  from  the  physician,  to  come  to  her  bedside, 
her  soul  swelled  with  gratitude  that  found  no  language  but 
prayer. 

"  I  have  sinned  against  Heaven  and  thee,  my  husband  !'* 
exclaimed  Rosamond,  from  the  depth  of  a  penitent  and  chasL- 
ened  spirit — "  I  am  no  more  worthy  to  be  called  thy  wife." 

"  We  have  both  erred,  my  beloved  Rosamond ;  we  have  lived 
too  much  for  the  world  and  ourselves,  regardless  of  higher 
and  holier  relations.  Never,  till  I  feared  to  lose  thee  for 
ever,  did  I  feel  the  drawings  of  that  mighty  chain  which  links 
us  inseparably  to  Him  who  created  us.  Let  us  both  commence 
life  anew — awakened  to  our  responsibilities  as  Christians,  and, 
profiting  by  the  sad  experience  of  the  past,  let  us  lay  the 
foundations  of  our  happiness  too  deep  and  broad  for  the  storms 


THE  BOSOM   SERPENT.  233 

of  passion  to  overthrow.  Let  us  build  it  on  the  Kock  of 
Ages." 

And  who  was  the  friend  whom  Eugenia  had  so  providen 
tially  discovered  ?  When  she  left  the  dwelling  of  Cecil  Dormer, 
to  seek  the  lady  who  wished  for  an  instructress  for  her 
daughters,  one  of  the  first  persons  who  crossed  her  path  was 
the  terrific  Mrs.  Grrundy.  This  woman,  whose  hatred  for  her 
seemed  implacable  as  the  injuries  she  had  "oflicted  were  deep, 
seeing  her  alone  and  in  evident  disorder  of  mind,  began  to 
revile  and  threaten  her.  A  stranger,  observing  the  terror  and 
loathing  with  which  a  young  and  attractive-looking  girl  shrunk 
from  a  coarse  and  masculine  woman,  paused  and  offered  his 
protection.  The  remarkable  resemblance  which  Eugenia 
bore  to  her  ill-fated  mother  led  to  a  discovery  as  unexpected 
as  it  was  interesting.  The  melancholy  stranger  was  no  other 
than  her  own  father,  who  believed  his  wife  and  child  had 
perished  in  their  flight,  having  heard  of  the  destruction  of 
the  boat  in  which  they  fled.  Thus  mysteriously  had  Providence 
transmuted  into  a  blessing,  what  seemed  the  greatest  misfor 
tune  of  her  life. 

The  history  of  Mr.  St.  Glair  and  his  unfortunate  wife, 
which  he  subsequently  related  to  Cecil  and  Rosamond,  was 
fraught  with  the  most  intense  interest.  Like  Rosamond,  he 
hacT'eherished  a  bosom  serpent,  remorseless  as  death,  "  cruel  as 
the  grave  •"  but  he  had  not,  like  her,  found,  before  it  was  too 
late,  an  antidote  for  its  deadly  venom. 


MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  BRACELET. 


WE  were  all  seated  in  a  piazza,  one  beautiful  summer's 
night.  The  moonbeams  quivered  through  the  interlacing  vines 
that  crept  fantastically  over  the  latticework  that  surrounded 
it.  My  grandmother  sat  in  an  arm-chair  in  the  centre  of  the 
group,  her  arms  quietly  folded  across  her  lap,  her  hair  white 
and  silvery  as  the  moonbeams  thut  lingered  on  its  parted  folds. 
She  was  the  handsomest  old  lady  I  ever  saw,  my  revered 
grandmother,  and  in  the  spring  of  her  years  had  been  a  reign 
ing  belle.  To  me  she  was  still  beautiful,  in  the  gentle  quietude 
of  life's  evening  shades,  the  dignity  of  chastened  passions, 
waiting  hopes,  and  sustaining  religious  faith.  I  was  her  favour 
ite  grandchild,  and  the  place  near  her  feet,  the  arm  laid  across 
her  lap,  the  uplifted  eye  fixed  steadfastly  on  her  face,  constant 
as  the  recurrence  of  the  still  night  hour,  told  a  story  of  love 
and  devotion  on  my  part,  which  defied  all  competition.  As  I 
sat  this  night,  leaning  on  her  lap,  I  held  her  hand  in  mine, 
and  the  thought  that,  a  few  more  years,  that  hand  must  be  cold 
in  the  grave,  incapable  of  answering  the  glowing  pressure  of 
mine,  made  me  draw  a  deep  inspiration,  and  I  almost  imagined 
her  complexion  assumed  an  ashen  hue,  prophetical  of  death. 
The  weather  was  warm,  and  she  wore  a  large  loose  wrapper, 
with  flowing  sleeves,  left  unconfined  at  the  wrist.  As  I  moved 
her  hand,  the  folds  of  the  sleeve  fell  back,  and  something  pure 
and  bright  glittered  in  the  moonlight.  She  made  a  movement 
to  draw  down  the  sleeve,  but  the  eager  curiosity  of  childhood 
was  not  to  be  eluded.  I  caught  her  wrist,  and  baring  it  to 
ihe  gaze  of  all,  exclaimed — 

"  Only  think — grandmother  has  got  on  a  bracelet — a  pear* 

(234) 


MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  BRACELET.  235 

bracelet  !  Who  would  think  of  her  indulging  in  such  finery  ? 
Here  are  two  sweet  pearl  lilies  set  together  in  a  golden  clasp, 
with  golden  leaves  below  them.  Why,  grandmother,  you  must 
be  setting  up  for  a  bride  !" 

"  It  was  a  bridal  gift,"  replied  she,  sliding  the  bracelet  on 
her  shrunken  arm ;  "  a  bridal  gift,  made  long  ago.  It  was  a 
foolish  thought,  child.  I  was  looking  over  a  casket,  where  I 
have  deposited  the  choicest  treasures  of  my  youth,  and  I 
clasped  it  on  my  wrist,  to  see  how  my  arm  had  fallen  from  its 
fair  proportions.  My  mind  became  so  lost  in  thinking  of  the 
story  of  this  gem,  I  forgot  to  restore  it  to  the  place  where  it 
has  so  long  lain,  slumbering  with  the  hoarded  memories  of 
other  days." 

"  A  story  I"  we  all  eagerly  exclaimed, — "  please  tell  it — you 
promised  us  one  to-night." 

"  Ah !  children,  it  is  no  fairy  tale,  about  bright  genii,  and 
enchanted  palaces,  and  ladies  so  beautiful  that  they  bewitch 
every  one  who  comes  within  the  magic  reach  of  their  charms. 
It  is  a  true  tale,  and  has  some  sad  passages  in  it." 

"  Grandmother,"  said  I,  in  a  dignified  manner,  "I  hope 
you  don't  think  me  so  silly  as  not  to  like  anything  because  it 
is  true.  I  have  got  over  the  Arabian  Nights  long  ago,  and  I 
would  rather  hear  something  to  make  me  feel  sorry  than  glad 
— I  always  do  feel  sad  when  the  moon  shines  on  me,  but  I 
can't  tell  the  reason  why." 

"  Hush  !  Mina,  and  let  grandmother  tell  her  story — you 
always  talk  so  much,"  said  little  Mitty,  who  sat  on  the  other 
side  of  her  venerable  relative. 

The  old  lady  patted  with  one  hand  the  golden  head  of  the 
chider,  but  the  arm  clasped  by  the  magic  bracelet  was  still  im 
prisoned  by  my  fingers,  and  as  she  proceeded  in  its  history, 
my  grasp  tightened  and  tightened  from  the  intenseness  of  my 
interest,  till  she  was  compelled  to  beg  me  to  release  her. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  in  a  musing  tone,  "  there  is  a  story  de 
pending  on  this,  which  I  remember  as  vividly  as  if  the  events 
were  of  yesterday.  I  may  forget  what  happened  an  hour  ago, 
but  the  records  of  my  youth  are  written  in  lines  that  grow 
deeper  as  time  flows  over  them." 

She  looked  up  steadily  for  a  few  moments,  appearing  to  my 
imagination  like  an  inspired  sibyl,  then  began  as  follows : 

"  When  I  was  a  young  girl,  I  had  no  brothers  or  sisters,  as 
you  have,  but  was  an  only,  I  might  say  a  lonely  child,  for  my 
father  was  dead  and  my  mother  an  invalid.  When  I  returned 


236  MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  BRACELET. 

from  school,  I  obtained  permission  to  invite  a  sweet  young 
cousin  of  mine,  whose  name  was  Eglantine,  to  be  my  com 
panion.  We  were  affluent,  she  was  poor;  and  when  my  mother 
proposed  to  make  our  house  her  home,  she  accepted  the  offer 
with  gratitude  and  joy.  She  was  an  interesting  creature,  of 
a  peculiar  temperament  and  exquisite  sensibility.  She  was 
subject  to  fits  of  wonderful  buoyancy,  and  equal  despondency; 
sometimes  she  would  warble  all  day,  gay  and  untiring  as  the 
bird  perched  on  yonder  spray,  then  a  soft  melancholy  would 
sit  brooding  on  her  brow,  as  if  she  feared  some  impending 
misfortune.  This  was  probably  owing  to  the  peculiar  circum 
stances  of  her  infancy,  for  she  was  born  during  her  mother's 
widowhood,  and  nursed  by  a  mother's  tears.  A  poetical  friend 
had  given  her  the  name  of  Eglantine,  and  well  did  her  beauty, 
sweetness,  delicacy,  and  fragility  justify  the  name.  In  our 
girlhood  we  grew  together,  like  the  friends  of  the  Midsum 
mer's  Night,  almost  inseparable  in  body,  and  never  divided  in 
heart,  by  those  little  jealousies  which  sometimes  interpose  their 
barriers  to  young  maidens'  friendships.  But  I  see  little  Mitty 
has  fallen  asleep  already.  My  story  is  too  grave  for  the  light 
ears  of  childhood.  I  shall  be  obliged,  too,  to  say  something 
about  love,  and  even  you,  Mina,  are  entirely  too  young  to 
know  anything  of  its  influence." 

"  Oh  !  but  I  do  know  something,  grandmother,"  exclaimed 
I,  impulsively ;  "  that  is,  I  have  read — I  have  thought" — I 
stammered  and  stopped,  unable  to  express  my  own  vague 
ideas. 

"  You  may  not  be  too  young  to  sympathize,  but  certainly 
too  young  to  feel,"  said  my  grandmother,  mildly;  "but, 
ardent  and  sympathizing  as  your  nature  is,  it  will  be  hard  for 
you  to  carry  back  your  mind  to  the  time  when  all  the  warm 
passions  and  hopes  of  youth  were  glowing  in  my  bosom.  It 
is  enough  to  say  that  there  was  one  who  came  and  rivalled 
Eglantine  in  my  affections,  one  to  whom  I  was  betrothed,  and 
to  whom  I  was  to  be  shortly  wedded.  It  was  on  such  an  eve 
as  this,  so  clear  and  bright,  that  he  gave  me  the  pledge  of  our 
betrothal,  this  bracelet  of  pearl,  and  clasped  it  on  an  arm  which 
then  filled  the  golden  circlet.  Perhaps  you  wonder  that  the 
first  token  of  love  should  not  have  been  a  ring;  but  Ronald 
did  not  like  to  follow  the  track  of  other  men,  and  even  in 
trifles  marked  out  for  himself  a  peculiar  and  independent 
course.  That  night,  when  I  retired  to  my  chamber,  I  found 
Eglantine  seated  at  the  open  window,  apparently  absorbed  in 


MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  BRACELET.  237 

the  contemplation  of  the  starry  heavens.  She  sat  in  a  loose 
undress,  her  hair  of  paly  gold  hung  unbound  over  her  shoul 
ders,  and  her  head,  being  slightly  thrown  back,  allowed  the 
moonlight  to  flood  her  whole  face  with  its  unearthly  radiance. 

"  '  You  look  very  beautiful  and  romantic,  dear  Eglantine,'  said 
I,  softly  approaching  her,  and  throwing  my  arms  round  her 
neck  ;  '  but  come  down  from  the  stars  a  little  while,  my  sweet 
cousin,  and  share  in  my  earthborn  emotions.'  My  heart  was 
too  full  of  happiness,  my  spirits  too  excited,  not  to  overflow 
in  unreserved  confidence  in  her  bosom.  She  wept  as  I  poured 
into  her  ears  all  my  hopes,  my  recent  vows,  and  future  schemes 
of  felicity.  It  was  her  usual  manner  of  expressing  deep  sym 
pathy,  and  I  loved  her  the  better  for  her  tears.  '  All  I  won 
der  at  and  blame  in  Ronald  is/  and  I  spoke  this  in  true  sin 
cerity,  '  that  he  does  not  love  you  better  than  me.  Never, 
till  this  evening,  was  I  sure  of  his  preference.' 

"  Eglantine  withdrew  herself  from  my  arms,  and  turned  her 
face  to  the  shadow  of  the  wall.  There  was  something  inex 
plicable  in  her  manner  that  chilled,  and  even  alarmed  me.  A 
thought,  too  painful  to  be  admitted,  darted  for  a  moment  to 
my  mind.  Could  she  be  jealous  of  Ronald's  love  for  me  ? 
Was  my  happiness  to  be  built  on  the  ruin  of  hers?  No!  it 
could  not  be.  She  probably  feared  my  affections  might  be 
come  alienated  from  her  in  consequence  of  my  new  attach 
ment.  Such  a  fear  was  natural,  and  I  hastened  to  remove  it 
by  the  warmest  professions,  mingled  with  covert  reproaches  for 
her  doubts  and  misgivings. 

"  I  had  a  young  waiting-maid,  who,  next  to  Eglantine, 
was  the  especial  object  of  my  regard.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  a  gentlewoman,  who,  from  a  series  of  misfortunes,  was  re 
duced  to  penury,  to  which  was  added  the  helplessness  of  dis 
ease.  To  relieve  her  mother  from  the  pressure  of  immediate 
want,  the  young  Alice  offered  herself  as  a  candidate  for  a  stafe 
of  servitude,  and  I  eagerly  availed  myself  of  the  opportunity 
of  securing  the  personal  attendance  of  one  so  refined  in  man 
ner  and  so  winning  in  appearance.  Alice  now  came  forward, 
as  was  her  custom,  to  assist  me  in  preparing  for  my  nightly 
rest.  She  was  about  to  unclasp  the  bracelet  from  uiy  wrist, 
but  I  drew  back  my  arm.  'No,  no,  Alice,'  said  I,  'this  is 
ar  amulet.  Sweet  dreams  will  come  to  my  pillow,  beckoned 
by  its  fairy  power.  I  cannot  sleep  without  it.  See  how  beau 
tifully  the  lilies  gleam  in  the  moonlight  that  gilds  my  couch.' 
Alice  seemed  as  if  she  could  never  weary  in  admiring  the 
116 


238  MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  BRACELET. 

beauty  of  the  ornament.  She  turned  my  arm  to  shift  the  rays, 
and  catch  the  delicate  colouring  of  the  pearls,  and  looped  up 
the  sleeve  of  my  night-dress  in  a  fantastic  manner,  to  display 
it  fully  to  her  gaze.  Once  or  twice  I  thought  I  saw  the  eyes 
of  Eglantine  fastened  upon  it  with  a  sad,  wistful  expression, 
and  the  same  exquisitely  painful  thought  again  darted  to  my 
mind.  I  struggled  against  its  admission,  as  degrading  both  to 
myself  and  her,  and  at  last  fell  asleep,  with  my  arm  thrown 
on  the  outside  of  the  bed,  and  the  bracelet  shining  out  in  tha 
pure  night-beams.  Alice  slept  in  a  little  bed  by  the  side  of 
mine,  for  I  could  not  bear  that  a  creature  so  young  and  deli 
cate,  and  so  gentle  bred,  should  share  the  apartments  devoted 
to  the  servants,  and  be  exposed  to  their  rude  companionship. 
She  generally  awoke  me  with  her  light  touch  or  gentle  voice, 
but  when  I  awoke  the  next  morning,  I  saw  Alice  still  sleep 
ing,  with  a  flushed  cheek  and  an  attitude  that  betokened  ex 
citement  and  unrest.  Eglantine  sat  at  her  window,  reading, 
dressed  with  her  usual  care  by  her  own  graceful  fingers.  In 
the  school  of  early  poverty  she  had  learned  the  glorious  lesson 
of  independence,  a  lesson  which,  in  my  more  luxurious  life, 
I  had  never  acquired.  '  Alice  must  be  ill/  said  I,  rising,  and 
approaching  her  bedside ;  '  she  looks  feverish,  and  her  brows 
are  knit,  as  if  her  dreams  were  fearful.'  I  bent  down  over 
her,  and  laid  my  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  to  rouse  her  from 
her  uneasy  slumbers,  when  I  started — for  the  precious  bracelet 
was  gone.  Eglantine  laid  down  her  book  at  my  sudden  ex 
clamation,  and  Alice,  wakening,  looked  round  her  with  a  be 
wildered  expression.  '  My  bracelet !'  repeated  I — ( it  is  gone.' 
I  flew  to  my  couch ;  it  was  not  there.  I  looked  upon  the  carpet, 
in  the  vain  hope  that  the  clasp  had  unloosed,  and  that  it  had 
fallen  during  the  night.  '  Alice,'  cried  I,  '  rise  this  moment, 
and  help  me  to  find  my  bracelet.  You  must  know  where  it  is. 
It  never  could  have  vanished  without  aid.'  I  fixed  my  eyes 
steadfastly  on  her  face,  which  turned  as  hueless  as  marble. 
She  trembled  in  every  limb,  and  sunk  down  again  on  the  side  i 
of  the  bed.  ^ 

"  'You  do  not  think  /have  taken  it,  Miss  Laura?"  said   • 
she,  gasping  for  breath.  f 

"  '  I  do  not  know  what  to  think/  I  answered,  in  a  raised 
tone ;  '  but  it  is  very  mysterious,  and  your  whole  appearance 
and  manner  is  very  strange  this  morning,  Alice.  You  must 
have  been  up  in  the  night,  or  you  would  not  have  slept  so  un 
usually  late 


MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  BRACELET.  239 

"  fDo  not  be  hasty,  Laura/  said  Eglantine,  in  a  sweet, 
soothing  voice ;  '  it  may  yet  be  found.  Perhaps  it  is  clinging 
to  your  dress,  concealed  in  its  folds.  Let  me  assist  you  in 
searching/  She  unfolded  the  sheets,  turned  up  the  edges  of 
the  carpet,  examined  every  corner  where  it  might  have  been 
tossed,  but  all  in  vain.  In  the  mean  while  Alice  remained  like 
one  stupefied,  following  our  movements  with  a  pale,  terrified 
countenance,  without  offering  to  participate  in  the  search. 

"  '  There  is  no  use  in  looking  longer,  Eglantine,'  said  I, 
bitterly.  '  I  suspect  Alice  might  assist  us  effectually  to  dis 
cover  it,  if  she  would.  Nay,  I  will  not  say  suspect — I  believe 
— I  dare  to  say,  I  know — for  conscious  guilt  is  written  in 
glaring  characters  on  her  countenance/ 

"  'Do  not  make  any  rash  accusations,  Laura/  cried  Eglan 
tine  ;  '  I  acknowledge  appearances  are  much  against  her,  but 
I  cannot  think  Alice  capable  of  such  ingratitude,  duplicity, 
and  meanness/ 

"  Alice  here  burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of  weeping,  and  de 
clared,  with  wringing  hands  and  choking  sobs,  that  she  would 
sooner  die  than  commit  so  base  and  wicked  a  deed. 

"  '  Oh  !  Miss  Eglantine,'  she  exclaimed,  *  didn't  you  take 
it  in  sport  ?  It  seems  as  if  I  saw  you  in  a  dream  going  up  to 
Miss  Laura,  while  she  was  asleep,  and  take  it  from  her  wrist, 
softly,  and  then  vanish  away.  Oh !  Miss  Eglantine,  the  more 
I  think  of  it  the  more  I  am  sure  I  saw  you, — all  in  sport,  I 
know, — but  please  return  it,  or  it  will  be  death  to  me/ 

"  The  blood  seemed  to  boil  up  in  the  cheeks  of  Eglantine, 
so  sudden  and  intense  was  the  glow  that  mantled  them. 

"  '  I  thought  you  innocent,  Alice/  said  she,  '  but  I  see, 
with  pain,  that  you  are  an  unprincipled  girl.  How  dare  you 
attempt  to  impose  on  me  the  burthen  of  your  crime  ?  How 
dare  you  think  of  sheltering  yourself  under  the  shadow  of  uiy 
name  ?' 

"  The  vague  suspicions  which  the  assertion  of  Alice  had 
excited,  vanished  before  the  outraged  looks  and  language  of 
the  usually  gentle  Eglantine.  Alice  must  have  been  the  trans 
gressor,  and  in  proportion  to  the  affection  and  confidence  I  had 
reposed  in  her,  and  the  transcendent  value  of  the  gift,  was  my 
indignation  at  the  offence,  and  the  strength  of  my  resolution 
to  banish  her  from  me. 

"  '  Restore  it/  said  I,  {  and  leave  me.  Do  it  quietly  and 
immediately,  and  I  will  inflict  no  other  punishment  than  your 
own  reflections,  for  having  abused  so  much  love  and  trust/ 


340  MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  BRACELET. 

"  '  Search  me,  if  you  please,  Miss  Laura,  and  all  that  be 
longs  to  me/  replied  Alice,  in  a  firmer  tone,  '  but  I  cannot 
give  back  what  I  have  never  taken.  I  would  not,  for  fifty 
thousand  worlds,  take  what  was  not  mine,  and  least  of  all  from 
you,  who  have  been  so  kind  and  good.  I  am  willing  to  go, 
for  I  would  rather  beg  my  bread  from  door  to  door,  than  live 
upon  the  bounty  of  one  who  thinks  me  capable  of  such  guilt :' 
with  a  composure  that  strangely  contrasted  with  her  late  vio 
lent  agitation,  she  arranged  her  dress,  and  was  walking  towards 
the  door,  when  Eglantine  arrested  her — 

"  '  Alice,  Alice,  you  must  be  mad  to  persist  in  this  course. 
Confess  the  whole,  return  the  bracelet,  and  Laura  may  yet 
forgive  you.  Think  of  your  sick  mother.  How  can  you  go 
to  her  in  shame  and  disgrace  ?' 

"  At  the  mention  of  her  mother,  Alice  wept  afresh,  and 
putting  her  hand  to  her  head,  exclaimed — 

"  '  I  feel  very,  very  sick.  Perhaps  we  shall  die  together, 
and  then  God  will  take  pity  on  us.  The  great  God  knows  I 
am  innocent  of  this  crime.' 

"  Grandmother,"  interrupted  I,  unable  to  keep  silence  any 
longer,  "  tell  me  if  she  was  not  innocent.  I  know  she  must 
have  been.  Who  could  have  taken  it  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  Eglantine  more  likely  to  have  stolen  it  from 
her  cousin,  who  was  to  her,  as  it  were,  another  soul  and 
being  ?" 

"  Oh  !  no,"  I  replied,  "  but  I  shall  feel  unhappy  till  I  dis 
cover  the  thief.  Please,  grandmother,  go  on.  Did  Alice 
really  go  away  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  child,"  answered  my  grandmother,  in  a  faltering 
voice,  "  she  went,  though  my  relenting  heart  pleaded  for  her 
to  linger.  Her  extreme  youth  and  helplessness,  her  previous 
simplicity  and  truthfulness,  and  her  solemn  asseverations  of 
innocence,  all  staggered  my  belief  in  her  guilt.  It  was  a  mys 
tery  which  grew  darker  as  I  attempted  to  penetrate  it.  If 
Alice  were  innocent,  who  could  be  guilty — Eglantine  ?  Such 

thought  was  sacrilege  to  her  pure  and  elevated  character, 
her  tried  affection  for  me,  her  self-respect,  dignity,  and  truth. 
Alice  returned  to  her  mother,  in  spite  of  our  permission  for 
her  to  remain  till  the  subject  could  be  more  fully  investigated. 

"  When  the  door  closed  upon  her  retreating  form,  I  sat 
down  by  the  side  of  Eglantine,  and  wept.  The  fear  that  I 
had  unjustly  accused  the  innocent,  the  possibility,  nay,  the 
probability  that  she  was  guilty,  the  loss  of  the  first  pledge  of 


MY  GRANL-MOTHER'S  BRACELET.  241 

plighted  love,  indefinite  terrors  for  the  future,  a  dim  shade  of 
superstition  brooding  over  the  whole,  all  conspired  to  make  me 
gloomy  and  desponding.  We  were  all  unhappy.  Ronald  tried 
to  laugh  at  my  sadness,  and  promised  me  'gems  from  the 
mine,  and  pearls  from  the  ocean/  to  indemnify  me  for  my  loss, 
yet  I  watched  every  change  of  his  expressive  countenance,  and 
knew  he  thought  deeply  and  painfully  on  the  subject.  The 
strange  suspicion  which  had  risen  in  my  mind  the  preceding 
night,  with  regard  to  Eglantine's  feelings  towards  him,  revived 
when  I  saw  them  together,  and  I  wondered  I  had  not  observed 
before  the  fluctuations  of  her  complexion,  and  the  agitation  of 
her  manner  whenever  he  addressed  her.  He  had  always  treated 
her  with  the  kindness  of  a  brother — that  kindness  now  made 
me  unhappy.  I  was  becoming  suspicious,  jealous,  and  self- 
distrustful,  with  a  settled  conviction  that  some  strange  barrier 
existed  to  my  union  with  Ronald,  a  destiny  too  bright  and  too 
beautiful  to  be  realized  in  this  world  of  dreams  and  shadows. 
My  mother  was  firm  in  her  belief  of  the  guilt  of  Alice,  who 
had  never  been  a  favourite  of  hers.  Perhaps  I  lavished  upon 
her  too  many  indulgences,  which  displeased  my  mother's  so 
berer  judgment.  She  forbade  all  intercourse  with  her,  aJl 
mention  of  her  name,  but  she  was  ever  present  to  my  imagina 
tion ;  sometimes  the  shameless  ingrate  and  accomplished  de 
ceiver,  at  others  the  eloquent  pleader  of  her  outraged  innocence 
One  day  Eglantine  came  to  me,  and  laid  her  hand  on  mino 
with  a  look  of  unspeakable  dismay — 

"  '  I  have  heard/  said  she,  '  that  Alice  is  dying.     Let  u« 
go  to  her,  Laura,  and  save  her,  if  it  be  not  too  late.' 

"  What  I  felt  at  hearing  these  words  I  never  can  tell, — 
they  pressed  upon  me  with  such  a  weight  of  grief — her  inno 
cence  seemed  as  clear  to  me  as  noonday — my  own  unkindnesi 
as  cruel  as  the  grave.  Quickly  as  possible  we  sought  the  cot 
tage  where  her  mother  dwelt,  and  a  piteous  spectacle  met  our 
eyes.  There  lay  Alice,  on  a  little  bed,  pale,  emaciated,  and 
almost  unconscious ;  her  once  bright  hair  dim  and  matted ; 
her  sweet  blue  eyes  sunk  and  half  closed;  her. arms  laid  list 
lessly  by  her  side,  the  breath  coming  faint  and  flutteringly 
from  her  parted  lips.  On  another  bed  lay  her  poor,  heart 
broken  mother,  unable  to  relieve  the  sufferings  of  her  she  would 
gladly  have  died  to  save.  Frantic  with  grief,  I  threw  myself 
by  the  side  of  Alice,  and  disturbed  the  solemn  stillness  of  the 
death-hour  with  my  incoherent  ravings.  I  declared  her  inno 
cence;  I  called  upon  her  to  live,  to  live  for  my  sake,  ana 


242  MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  BRACELET. 

throwing  my  arms  wildly  round  her  wasted  form,  struggled  to 
hold  her  back  from  the  grave  yawning  beneath  her.  It  was 
in  vain  to  cope  with  Omnipotence.  Alice  died,  even  in  the 
midst  of  my  agonies,  and  it  was  long  before  I  was  able  to 
listen  to  the  story  of  her  illness,  as  related  by  her  disconso 
late  mother.  She  had  returned  home  sick  and  feverish,  and 
sick  and  feverish  she  evidently  was  on  her  first  awakening, 
and  that  wounded  spirit,  which  none  can  bear,  acting  on  a  dis 
eased  frame,  accelerated  the  progress  of  her  fever  till  it  settled 
on  her  brain,  producing  delirium,  and  ultimately  death.  During 
all  her  delirium,  she  was  pleading  her  cause  with  an  angel's 
eloquence,  declaring  her  innocence,  and  blessing  me  as  her 
benefactress  and  friend." 

Here  my  grandmother  paused,  and  covered  her  eyes  with 
her  handkerchief.  I  laid  my  head  on  her  lap,  and  the  ring 
lets  of  little  Mitty's  hair  were  wet  with  my  tears.  I  felt  quite 
broken-hearted,  and  ready  to  murmur  at  Providence  for  placing 
me  in  a  world  so  full  of  error  and  woes. 

"  Did  you  ever  feel  happy  again,  dear  grandmother  ?"  asked 
I,  when  I  ventured  to  break  the  silence, — curiosity  was  com 
pletely  merged  in  sympathy. 

"  Yes,  Mina,  I  have  had  hours  of  happiness,  such  as  seldom 
falls  to  the  lot  of  woman,  but  those  bright  hours  were  like  the 
shining  of  the  gold  that  comes  forth  purified  from  the  furnace 
of  fire.  The  mother  of  Alice  soon  followed  her  to  the  grave, 
and  there  they  sleep,  side  by  side,  in  the  lonely  churchyard. 
Eglantine  soothed  and  comforted  me,  and  endeavoured  to  stifle 
the  self-upbraidings  that  ever  sounded  dolefully  to  my  heart. 
Alice  had  been  the  victim  of  inexplicable  circumstances,  and 
so  far  from  having  been  cruel,  I  had  been  kind  and  forbearing, 
considering  the  weight  of  evidence  against  her.  Thus  rea 
soned  Eglantine,  and  I  tried  to  believe  her,  but  all  my  hopes 
of  joy  seemed  blighted,  for  how  could  I  mingle  the  wreath  of 
love  with  the  cypress  boughs  that  now  darkened  my  path  ? 
Ronald  pressed  an  immediate  union,  but  I  shrunk  with  super 
stitious  dread  from  the  proposition,  and  refused  the  ring,  with 
which  be  now  sought  to  bind  my  faith.  '  No,  no,'  I  cried, 
'  the  pledges  of  love  are  not  for  me — I  will  never  accept  an 
other.' 

"  My  mother  grew  angry  at  my  fatalism.  'You  are  nursing 
phantasies,'  said  she,  '  that  are  destroying  the  brightness  of 
your  youth.  You  are  actually  making  yourself  old,  ere  yet 
in  your  bloom.  See,  if  there  are  not  actually  streaks  of  gray 


MT  GRANDMOTHER'S  BRACELET.  243 

threading  your  jetty  hair.'  I  rose  and  stood  before 'a  mirror, 
and  shaking  my  hair  loose  from  the  confining  comb,  saw  that 
her  words  were  true.  Here  and  there  a  gleam  of  silver  wan 
dered  through  those  tresses  which  had  always  worn  that  pur 
ple  depth  of  hue  peculiar  to  the  raven's  plumage.  The  chill 
that  penetrated  my  heart  on  the  death-bed  of  Alice,  had  thus 
suddenly  and  prematurely  frosted  the  dark  locks  of  my  youth. 
My  mother  became  alarmed  at  my  excessive  paleness,  and  pro 
posed  a  journey  for  the  restoration  of  my  spirits  and  health. 
Ronald  eagerly  supported  the  suggestion,  but  Eglantine  de 
clined  accompanying  us.  She  preferred,  she  said,  being  alone. 
With  books  at  home,  and  Nature,  in  the  glory  of  its  summer 
garniture,  abroad,  she  could  not  want  sources  of  enjoyment.  I 
did  not  regret  her  determination,  for  her  presence  had  become 
strangely  oppressive  to  me,  and  even  Ronald's  manners  had 
assumed  an  embarrassment  and  constraint  towards  her  very 
different  from  their  usual  familiarity.  The  night  before  our 
departure  I  felt  more  melancholy  than  ever.  It  was  just  such 
a  night  as  the  one  that  witnessed  our  ill-starred  betrothal.  The 
moon  came  forth  from  behind  a  bed  of  white  clouds,  silvering 
every  flake  as  it  floated  back  from  her  beauteous  face,  and  dif 
fusing  on  earth  the  wondrous  secret  of  heavenly  communion. 
I  could  not  sleep ;  and  as  I  lay  gazing  on  the  solemn  tranquil 
lity  of  the  night  heavens,  I  thought  of  the  time  when  '  those 
heavens  should  be  rolled  together  as  a  scroll,  and  the  elements 
melt  with  fervent  heat,'  and  I,  still  thinking,  living,  feeling, 
in  other,  grander,  everlasting  scenes,  the  invisible  dweller  of 
my  bosom's  temple  assumed  such  magnitude  and  majesty  in 
my  eyes,  the  contemplation  became  overwelming  and  awful. 
The  sublime  sound  of  the  clock  striking  the  midnight  hour — 
and  all  who  have  heard  that  sound  in  the  dead  silence  of  the 
night,  can  attest  that  it  is  sublime — broke  in  on  my  deep  ab 
straction.  Eglantine,  who  had  lain  wrapped  in  peaceful  slum 
bers,  here  softly  drew  back  the  bed-cover,  and  rising  slowly, 
walked  round  with  stilly  steps  to  the  side  where  I  reclined, 
and  stood  looking  fixedly  upon  me.  '  Eglantine  !'  I  exclaimed, 
terrified  at  her  attitude  and  singular  appearance.  '  Eglantine, 
what  is  the  matter  ?'  She  answered  not,  moved  not,  but  re 
mained  standing,  immovable,  with  her  eyes  fixed  and  expres 
sionless  as  stone.  There  she  stood,  in  the  white  moonlight, 
in  her  long,  loose  night-dress,  which  hung  around  her,  in  hei 
stillness,  like  the  folds  of  the  winding-sheet,  her  hair  stream- 
ing  down  her  back  in  long,  lifeless  tresses,  and  lighted  up  oa 


244  MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  BRACELET. 

her  brow  with  a  kind  of  supernatural  radiance — and  then  those 
death-resembling  eyes  !  I  trembled,  and  tried  to  draw  the  sheet 
over  my  face,  to  shut  out  the  appalling  vision.  After  a  few 
moments,  which  seemed  interminable  to  me,  she  bent  over  me, 
and  taking  my  right  hand,  felt  of  my  wrist  again  and  again.  Her 
fingers  were  as  cold  as  marble.  My  very  blood  seemed  to  con 
geal  under  her  touch.  *  It  is  gone,'  murmured  she,  '  but  it 
is  safe — I  have  it  safe.  It  fits  my  wrist  as  well  as  hers.'  Ter 
rified  as  I  was  at  this  unexpected  apparition,  my  mind  was 
clear,  and  never  were  my  perceptions  more  vivid.  The  mys 
tery  of  the  bracelet  was  about  to  be  unravelled.  Poor  Alice's 
assertion  that  she  had  seen  Eglantine  standing  by  my  side, 
and  taking  the  bracelet  from  my  wrist,  came  back  thundering 
in  my  ears.  '  It  is  gone,'  replied  Eglantine,  in  tu«  same  low, 
deep  voice,  '  but  I  know  where  it  is  laid  j  where  the  bride 
groom  or  the  bride  can  never  find  it.  Perhaps  the  moon  sbines 
too  brightly  on  it,  and  reveals  the  spot.'  Thus  saying,  she 
glided  across  the  floor,  with  spirit-like  tread,  and  opening  the 
door,  disappeared.  In  the  excess  of  my  excitement  I  forgot 
my  fears,  and  hastily  rising,  followed  her  footsteps,  determined 
to  unravel  the  mystery,  if  I  died  in  the  act.  I  could  «atch 
the  glimpses  of  her  white  garments  through  the  shadows  of 
the  winding  staircase,  and  I  pursued  them  with  rapid  st«ps, 
till  I  found  myself  close  behind  her,  by  the  door  which  opened 
into  the  garden.  There  she  stood,  still  as  a  corpse,  and  again 
the  cold  dew  of  superstitious  terror  gathered  on  my  brow.  I 
soon  saw  a  fumbling  motion  about  the  keyhole,  and  the  door 
opening,  she  again  glided  onward  towards  the  summer-house, 
my  favourite  retreat,  the  place  where  I  had  received  this  mys 
terious  bracelet — the  place  where  Flora  had  collected  all  her 
wealth  of  bloom.  She  put  aside  the  drooping  vines,  sending 
out  such  a  cloud  of  fragrance  on  the  dewy  air,  I  almost  fainted 
from  their  oppression,  and  stooping  down  over  a  white  rose- 
Dush,  carefully  removed  the  lower  branches,  while  the  rose- 
leaves  fell  in  a  snowy  shower  over  her  naked  feet.  '  Where  is 
it?'  said  she,  feeling  about  in  the  long  grass.  'It  isn't  in  the 
<ipot  where  I  hid  it.  If  she  has  found  it,  she  may  yet  be  a 
nkide,  and  Ronald  still  her  own.'  She  stooped  down  lower 
over  the  rose-bush,  then  rising  hastily,  I  saw,  with  inexpressi 
ble  agitation,  the  lost  bracelet  shining  in  the  light  that  quivered 
with  ghostlike  lustre  on  her  pallid  face.  With  a  most  un 
earthly  smile  she  clasped  it  on  her  wrist,  and  left  the  arbour, 
muttering  in  a  low  voice,  '  I  will  not  leave  it  here — lest  sh«j 


MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  BRACELET.  245 

find  out  where  it  lies,  and  win  back  her  bridal  gift.  I  will 
keep  it  next  my  own  heart,  and  she  cannot  reach  it  there.' 
Once  more  l*followed  the  gliding  steps  of  Eglantine,  through 
the  chill  silence  of  night,  till  we  ascended  the  stairs,  and  en 
tered  our  own  chamber.  Quietly  she  laid  herself  down,  as  if 
she  had  just  risen  from  her  knees  in  prayer,  and  I  perceived 
by  her  closed  lids  and  gentle  breathing,  that  a  natural  sleep 
was  succeeding  the  inexplicable  mysteries  of  somnambulism." 

"  She  was  walking  in  her  sleep,  then,  grandmother !"  I  ex 
claimed,  drawing  a  long  breath.  "  I  thought  so  all  the  time ; 
and  poor  Alice  was  really  innocent !  And  what  did  Eglantine 
say  the  next  morning,  when  she  awaked,  and  found  the  brace 
let  on  her  arm  ?" 

"  She  was  astonished  and  bewildered,  and  knew  not  what  to 
think;  but  when  I  told  her  of  all  the  events  of  the  night,  the 
truth  of  which  the  bracelet  itself  attested,  she  sunk  back  like 
one  stricken  with  death.  So  many  thoughts  crowded  upon 
her  at  once  in  such  force,  it  is  no  wonder  they  almost  crushed 
her  with  their  power.  The  conviction  that  her  love  for  Ronald 
could  no  longer  be  concealed,  the  remembrance  of  the  accusa 
tion  of  Alice,  which  she  had  so  indignantly  repelled,  the  ap 
parent  meanness  and  turpitude  of  the  art,  though  performed 
without  any  conscious  volition  on  her  part,  the  belief  that 
another  had  been  the  victim  of  her  involuntary  crime,  all  united 
to  bow  her  spirit  to  the  dust.  My  heart  bled  at  the  sight  of 
her  distress,  and,  every  feeling  wrought  up  to  unnatural  strength 
by  the  exciting  scenes  I  had  witnessed,  I  promised  never  to 
wed  Ronald,  since  the  thought  of  our  union  had  evidently 
made  her  so  unhappy.  Eglantine  contended  against  this  reso 
lution  with  all  her  eloquence,  but,  alas !  she  was  not  destined 
long  to  oppose  the  claims  of  friendship  to  the  pleadings  of 
love.  Her  constitution  was  naturally  frail,  a  fragility  indicated 
by  the  extreme  delicacy  and  mutability  of  her  complexion,  and 
the  profusion  of  her  pale  golden  hair.  Day  by  day  she  faded 
— night  by  night  she  continued  her  mysterious  rambles  to  the 
spot  where  she  had  first  deposited  the  bracelet,  till  she  had 
no  longer  strength  to  leave  her  bed,  when  her  soul  seemed  to 
commune  with  the  cherubim  and  seraphim,  which,  I  doubt 
not,  in  their  invisible  glory  surrounded  her  nightly  couch.  Aa 
she  drew  near  the  land  of  shadows,  she  lost  sight  of  the  phan 
tom  of  earthly  love  in  aspirations  after  a  heavenly  union.  She 
mourned  over  her  ill-directed  sensibilities,  her  wasted  oppor 
tunities,  her  selfish  brooding  over  forbidden  hopes  and  imagin- 


246  MY  GRANDMOTHER'S  BRACELET. 

ings.  She  gave  herself  up  in  penitence  and  faith  to  her  Re 
deemer,  in  submission  to  her  Father  and  her  God ;  and  her 
soul  at  last  passed  away  as  silently  and  gently  as  the  perfume 
from  the  evening  flower  into  the  bosom  of  eternity." 

"  Oh  !  grandmother,  what  a  melancholy  story  you  have 
told,"  cried  I,  looking  at  the  bracelet  more  intently  than  ever, 
the  vivid  feelings  of  curiosity  subdued  and  chastened  by  such 
sad  revealings ;  "  but  did  not  you  marry  Ronald  at  last.  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  she,  looking  upward  with  mournful  earnest 
ness  ;  "  the  beloved  grandfather,  who  has  so  often  dandled  you 
in  his  arms,  in  this  very  spot  where  we  are  now  seated,  whose 
head,  white  with  the  snows  of  threescore  years  and  ten,  now 
reposes  on  the  pillow  all  the  living  must  press, — who  now  awaits 
me,  I  trust,  in  the  dwellings  of  immortality,  was  that  once 
youthful  Ronald,  whose  beauty  and  worth  captivated  the  affec 
tions  of  the  too  sensitive  Eglantine.  Many,  many  years  of 
happiness  has  it  been  my  blessed  lot  to  share  with  him  on 
earth.  The  memories  of  Alice  and  Eglantine,  softened  by 
time,  were  robbed  of  their  bitterness,  and  only  served  to  en 
dear  us  more  tenderly  to  each  other.  The  knowledge  we  had 
gained  of  the  frailty  and  uncertainty  of  life,  led  us  to  lift  our 
views  to  a  more  enduring  state  of  existence,  and  love,  hallowed 
by  religion,  became  a  sublime  and  holy  bond,  imperishable  as 
the  soul,  and  lofty  as  its  destinies.  I  have  lived  to  see  my 
children's  children  gather  around  me,  like  the  olive  branches 
of  scripture,  fair  and  flourishing.  I  have  lived  to  see  the 
companion  of  my  youth  and  age  consigned  to  the  darkness  of 
the  grave,  and  I  have  nothing  more  to  do  on  earth  but  to  fold 
the  mantle  of  the  spirit  quietly  around  me,  and  wait  the 
coming  of  the  Son  of  Man." 

I  looked  up  with  reverence  in  my  grandmother' &  face  aa 
Bhe  thus  concluded  the  eventful  history  of  the  Pearl  Bracelet, 
and  I  thought  what  a  solemn  and  beautiful  thing  was  old  age 
when  the  rays  of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  thus  illumed  its 
hoary  hair,  and  converted  it  into  an  emblematic  crown  of 
glory. 


THE 

MYSTERIOUS  RETICULE. 


"I  OWN/'  said  Fitzroy,  "that  I  have  some  foolish  preju 
dices,  and  this  may  be  one.  But  I  cannot  bear  to  see  a  lady 
with  a  soiled  pocket-handkerchief.  I  never  wish  to  see  any 
thing  less  pure  and  elegant  than  this  in  the  hand  of  a  beauti 
ful  maiden."  He  lifted,  as  he  spoke,  a  superb  linen  handker 
chief,  decorated  with  lace,  that  lay  carelessly  folded  in  the  lap 
of  Mary  Lee. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  exclaimed  her  cousin  Kate,  laughing,  "  it  looks 
very  nice  now,  for  she  has  just  taken  it  from  her  drawer.  See, 
the  perfume  of  the  lavender  has  not  begun  to  evaporate.  But 
wait  till  to-morrow,  and  then  it  will  look  no  nicer  than  mine." 

"To-morrow!"  cried  the  elegant  Fitzroy,  with  an  expression 
of  disgust ;  "  surely  no  lady  would  think  of  using  a  handker 
chief  more  than  once.  If  I  were  in  love  with  a  Venus  de 
Medici  herself,  and  detected  her  in  such  an  unpardonable  act, 
I  believe  the  spell  would  be  broken." 

"  I  would  not  give  much  for  your  love,  then,"  cried  Kate, 
"  if  it  had  no  deeper  foundation — would  you,  Mary  ?" 

Mary  blushed,  for  she  was  already  more  than  half  in  lov 
with  the  handsome  Fitzroy,  and  was  making  an  internal  reso  1 
lution  to  be  exceedingly  particular  in  future  about  her  pocket- 
handkerchiefs. 

Fitzroy  was  a  young  man  of  fashion  and  fortune,  of  tine 
person,  elegant  manners,  cultivated  mind,  and  fastidiously  re 
fined  taste.  He  had,  however,  two  great  defects — one  was, 
attaching  too  much  importance  to  trifles,  and  making  them  tfio 
criterion  of  character;  the  other,  a  morbid  suspicion  of  tho 

(247) 


248  THE   MYSTERIOUS   RETICULE. 

sincerity  of  his  friends,  and  a  distrust  of  their  motives,  which 
might  become  the  wildest  jealousy  in  the  passion  of  love.  He 
had  a  most  intense  admiration  of  female  loveliness,  and  looked 
upon  woman  as  a  kind  of  super-angelic  being,  whose  food 
should  be  the  ambrosiae  and  nectar  of  the  gods,  and  whoso 
garments  the  spotless  white  of  vestal  purity.  He  had  never 
known  misfortune,  sickness,  or  sorrow,  therefore  had  never 
been  dependent  on  those  homely,  domestic  virtues,  those  tender, 
household  cares,  which  can  alone  entitle  woman  to  the  poetical 
appellation  of  a  ministering  angel.  He  was  the  spoiled  child  of 
affluence  and  indulgence,  who  looked,  as  Kate  said,  "  as  if  he 
ought  to  recline  on  a  crimson  velvet  sofa,  and  be  fanned  with 
peacocks'  feathers  all  the  day  long."  He  was  now  the  guest 
of  Mr.  Lee,  and  consequently  the  daily  companion  of  the 
beautiful,  sensitive  Mary  and  her  gay  cousin.  With  his  pas 
sionate  admiration  for  beauty,  it  is  not  strange  that  he  should 
become  more  and  more  attracted  towards  Mary,  who  never 
forgot,  in  the  adornments  of  her  finished  toilet,  the  robe  of 
vestal  white  and  the  pure,  delicate,  perfumed  handkerchief, 
which  Fitzroy  seemed  to  consider  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  a  lady's 
perfections.  The  cousins  walked,  rode,  and  visited  with  the 
elegant  stranger,  and  never  did  weeks  glide  more  rapidly  away. 
Mary  was  happy,  inexpressibly  happy,  for  life  began  to  be  in 
vested  with  that  soft,  purple  hue,  which,  like  the  rich  blush 
of  the  grape,  is  so  easily  brushed  away,  and  can  never  be  re 
stored. 

Fitzroy  had  often  noticed  and  admired,  among  the  decora 
tions  of  Mary's  dress,  a  beautiful  reticule  of  white  embroidered 
satin.  One  evening,  on  returning  from  a  party,  Mary's  brow 
became  suddenly  clouded.  "  Oh,  how  could  I  be  so  careless?" 
exclaimed  she,  in  a  tone  of  vexation ;  "  I  have  left  my  reticule 
behind.  How  unfortunate  !" 

Fitzroy  immediately  offered  his  services,  but  Mary  persisted 
in  refusing  them,  and  dispatched  a  servant  in  his  stead. 

"  You  must  have  something  very  precious  in  that  bag,"  said 
Kate.  "  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  full  of  billetdoux  or  love-let 
ters.  I  intend  to  go  after  it  myself,  and  find  out  all  Mary's 
secrets." 

"  How  foolish  !"  cried  Mary.  "  You  know  there  is  no  such 

thing  in  it — nothing  in  the  world  but "  She  stopped,  in 

evident  embarrassment,  and  lowered  her  eyes,  to  avoid  Fitz- 
Joy's  searching  glance. 


THE   MYSTERIOUS  RETICULE.  249 

The  servant  came  without  the  bag,  and  again  Fitzroy  renewed 
his  offers  of  search  in  the  morning. 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Mary ;  "  I  am  very  grateful,  but  I  can 
not  allow  you  to  take  that  trouble.  It  is  of  no  consequence ; 
I  insist  that  you  do  not  think  of  going.  I  am  very  sorry  I 
said  anything  about  it." 

Mary's  ill-concealed  embarrassment  and  flitting  blushes 
awakened  one  of  Fitzroy's  bosom  enemies.  Why  this  strange 
anxiety  and  confusion  about  a  simple  reticule  ?  It  must  be  the 
receptacle  of  secrets  she  would  blush  to  have  revealed.  Kate's 
suggestion  was  probably  true.  It  contained  some  confessions 
or  tokens  of  love  which  she  was  holding  in  her  heart's  trea 
sury,  while  her  eye  and  her  lip  beamed  and  smiled  encourage 
ment  and  hope  of  him. 

The  next  morning  he  rose  from  his  bed  at  an  early  hour 
with  a  feeling  of  restlessness  and  anxiety,  and  resolved  to  go 
himself  in  search  of  the  lost  treasure.  He  found  it  suspended 
on  the  chair  in  which  he  remembered  to  have  seen  her  last 
seated,  leaning  against  the  window,  with  the  moonbeams  shining 
down  on  her  snowy  brow.  The  soft  satin  yielded  to  his  touch, 
and  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  texture  seemed  to  correspond 
with  the  grace  and  loveliness  of  the  owner.  He  was  begin 
ning  to  be  ashamed  of  his  suspicions,  when  the  resistance  of 
a  folded  paper  against  his  fingers  recalled  Kate's  laughing  as 
sertions  about  love-letters  and  billetdoux,  and  jealous  thoughts 
again  tingled  in  his  veins.  For  one  moment  he  was  tempted 
to  open  it  and  satisfy  his  tantalizing  curiosity,  but  pride  and 
honour  resisted  the  promptings  of  the  evil  spirit. 

Poor  Mary  !  had  she  known  what  sweeping  conclusions  he 
brought  against  her  during  his  homeward  walk,  she  would  have 
wished  her  unfortunate  bag  in  the  bottom  of  the  ocean.  She 
was  false,  coquetish,  and  vain !  He  would  never  bestow  an 
other  thought  upon  her,  but  bid  adieu,  as  soou  as  possible,  to 
her  father's  hospitable  mansion,  and  forget  his  transient  fasci 
nation.  When  he  entered  the  room  where  Mary  and  Kate 
were  seated,  Mary  sprang  forward  with  a  crimsoned  cheek  and 
extended  her  hand  with  an  eager,  involuntary  motion.  "  I 
thank  you,"  said  she,  coldly ;  "  but  I  am  very,  very  sorry  you 
assumed  such  unnecessary  trouble." 

She  thanked  him  with  her  lips,  but  her  ingenuous  counte 
nance  expressed  anything  but  gratitude  and  pleasure.  Fitzroy 
gave  it  to  ner  with  a  low,  silent  bow,  and  threw  himself  wea 
rily  on  the  sofa. 


250  THE   MYSTERIOUS   RETICULE. 

"  I  will  know  what  mystery  is  wrapped  up  in  this  little 
bag  !"  exclaimed  Kate,  suddenly  snatching  it  from  her  hand. 
"  I  know  it  contains  some  love  talisman  or  fairy  token." 

"  Ah,  Kate,  I  entreat,  I  pray  you  to  restore  it  to  me," 
cried  Mary. 

"  No — no — no,"  answered  Kate,  laughing,  and  holding  it 
iigh  above  her  head. 

Mary  sprang  to  catch  it,  but  Kate  only  swung  it  higher 
and  higher  with  triumphant  glee.  Fitzroy  looked  on  with  a 
scornful  glance ;  Mary's  unaffected  alarm  confirmed  all  hia 
suspicions,  and  he  felt  a  selfish  gratification  in  her  increasing 
trepidation. 

"  Kate,  I  did  not  think  you  could  be  rude  or  unkind  be 
fore,"  said  Mary,  looking  reproachfully  at  Fitzroy,  for  not 
assisting  her  in  the  contest. 

"  Since  Miss  Lee  evidently  endures  so  much  uneasiness  lest 
the  mysteries  of  her  bag  should  be  explored,"  cried  Fitzroy, 
with  a  sarcastic  smile,  "I  am  sure  her  friends  must  sympathize 
in  her  sufferings." 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  in  earnest,  Mary,"  cried  Kate,  tossing  the 
reticule  over  her  head,  "  I  would  not  make  you  unhappy  for 
the  world." 

There  was  a  beautiful  child,  about  two  or  three  years  old, 
a  little  sister  of  Kate's,  who  was  playing  on  the  carpet  with 
the  paraphernalia  of  her  dolls.  The  bag  fell  directly  in  her 
lap,  and  she  caught  it  with  childish  eagerness.  "  I  got  it — I 
got  it !"  cried  she,  exultingly ;  and  before  Mary  could  regain 
possession  of  it,  she  had  undrawn  the  silken  strings,  and 
emptied  the  contents  in  her  lap — a  parcel  of  faded  rose-leaves 
scattered  on  the  floor,  from  a  white  folded  paper  that  opened 
as  it  fell.  Fitzroy  beheld  it,  and  his  jealous  fears  vanished 
into  air;  but  another  object  attracted  his  too  fastidious  gaze — • 
a  soiled,  crumpled  pocket-handkerchief  lay  maliciously  dis 
played  in  the  little  plunderer's  lap,  and  then  was  brandished 
in  her  victorious  hand.  Mary  stood  for  a  moment  covered 
vyith  burning  blushes,  then  ran  out  of  the  room,  stung  to  the 
soul  by  the  mocking  smile  that  curled  the  lip  of  Fitzroy. 

11  Cousin  Mary  been  eating  cake,"  said  the  child,  exposing 
the  poor  handkerchief  still  more  fully  to  the  shrinking,  ultra- 
refined  man  of  taste  and  fashion. 

The  spell  was  broken,  the  goddess  thrown  from  her  pedestal 
• — the  charm  of  those  exquisite,  transparent,  rose-scented  hand- 
jterchitifs  for  ever  destroyed.  Kate  laughed  immoderately  at 


THE   MYSTERIOUS   RETICULE.  251 

the  whole  scene.  There  was  something  truly  ridiculous  to  her 
in  the  unfathomable  mystery,  Mary's  preposterous  agitation, 
and  Fitzroy' s  unconcealed  disgust.  There  was  a  very  slight 
dash  of  malice  mingled  with  the  gayety  of  her  character,  and 
when  she  recollected  how  much  Fitzroy  had  admired  and  Mary 
displayed  her  immaculate  and  superb  handkerchiefs,  pure  from 
all  earthly  alloy,  she  could  not  but  enjoy  a  little  her  present 
mortification.  She  ridiculed  Fitzroy  po  unmercifully  that  he 
took  refuge  in  flight,  and  then  the  merry  girl  sought  the 
chamber  of  Mary,  whither  she  had  fled  to  conceal  her  mortifi 
cation  and  tears. 

"  Surely  you  are  not  weeping  for  such  a  ridiculous  cause  ?" 
said  Kate,  sobered  at  the  sight  of  Mary's  real  suffering.  "  I 
had  no  idea  you  were  so  foolish." 

Mary  turned  away  in  silence ;  she  could  not  forgive  her  for 
having  exposed  her  weakness  to  the  eyes  of  Fitzroy. 

"  Mary,"  continued  Kate,  "  I  did  not  mean  to  distress  you ; 
I  did  not  imagine  there  was  anything  in  the  bag  you  really 
wished  concealed,  and  I  am  sure  there  was  not.  What  induced 
you  to  make  such  a  fuss  about  a  simple  pocket-handkerchief? 
It  looks  as  nice  as  mine  does,  -I  dare  say." 

"  But  he  is  so  very  particular,"  sobbed  Mary,  "  he  will 
never  forget  it.  I  have  always  carried  a  handkerchief  in  my 
bag  for  use,  so  that  I  could  keep  the  one  which  I  held  in  my 
hand  clean  and  nice.  I  knew  his  peculiarities,  and  thought 
there  was  no  harm  in  consulting  them.  He  will  never  think 
of  me  now  without  disgust." 

"  And  if  he  never  will,"  cried  the  spirited  Kate,  with  flash 
ing  eyes,  "  I  would  spurn  him  from  my  thoughts  as  a  being 
unworthy  of  respect  or  admiration.  I  would  not  marry  such 
a  man  were  he  to  lay  at  my  feet  the  diadem  of  the  East.  For 
give  me  for  having  made  myself  merry  at  your  expense,  but 
I  could  not  help  laughing  at  your  overwrought  sensibility. 
Answer  me  seriously,  Mary,  and  tell  me  if  you  think  that  if 
Fitzroy  really  loved  you,  and  was  worthy  of  your  love,  he 
would  become  alienated  by  a  trifle  like  this  ?" 

Mary  began  to  be  ashamed  of  her  emotions  in  the  presence 
of  her  reasonable  cousin ; — she  was  ashamed,  and  endeavoured 
to  conceal  them,  but  they  were  not  subdued.  She  was  con 
scious  she  must  appear  in  a  ridiculous  light  in  the  eyes  of  the 
scrupulously  elegant  Fitzroy,  whose  morbid  tastes  she  had  so 
unfortunately  studied.  When  they  met  again,  it  was  with 
feelings  of  mutual  estrangement.  She  was  cold  and  con- 


252  THE   MYSTERIOUS   RETICULE. 

strained — he  polite,  but  reserved.  Mary  felt  with  anguish 
that  the  soft,  purple  hue  which  had  thrown  such  an  enchant 
ment  over  every  scene,  was  vanished  away.  The  realities  of 
existence  began  to  appear. 

Fitzroy  soon  after  took  his  leave,  with  very  different  feel 
ings  from  what  he  had  once  anticipated.  He  blamed  himself, 
but  he  could  not  help  the  chilled  state  of  his  heart.  Mary 
was  a  mortalr  after  all;  she  ate  cake,  drank  lemonade,  and 
used  her  handkerchiefs  like  other  ladies,  only  she  kept  them 
out  of  sight.  Her  loveliness,  grace,  and  feminine  gentleness 
of  manner  no  longer  entranced  him.  He  departed,  and  Mary 
Bighed  over  the  dissolving  of  her  first  love's  dream ;  but  not 
withstanding  her  weakness  on  this  subject,  she  had  a  just  esti 
mation  of  herself,  and  a  spirit  which,  when  once  roused,  guided 
her  to  exertions  which  astonished  herself.  Her  gay  cousin, 
too,  departed,  and  she  was  thrown  upon  her  own  resources. 
She  read  much,  and  reflected  more.  She  blushed  for  her  past 
weakness,  and  learned  to  think  with  contempt  upon  the  man 
who  had  so  false  an  estimate  of  the  true  excellence  and  glory 
of  a  woman's  character.  "  Oh,"  repeated  she  to  herself  a 
hundred  times,  as,  interested  in  domestic  duties,  she  devoted 
herself  to  the  comfort  of  her  widowed  father,  "  how  misera 
ble  I  should  have  been  as  the  wife  of  a  coxcomb,  who  would 
desire  me  to  sit  all  day  with  folded  hands,  holding  an  embroi 
dered  handkerchief,  with  fingers  encased  in  white  kid  gloves  ! 
tlow  could  I  ever  have  been  so  weak  and  foolish  ?"  Mary 
generally  concluded  these  reflections  with  a  sigh,  for  Fitzroy 
was  handsome,  graceful,  and  intellectual,  and  he  was,  more 
over,  the  first  person  who  had  ever  interested  her  young 
heart. 

The  following  summer  she  accompanied  her  father  to  a 
fashionable  watering-place.  She  was  admired  and  caressed, 
but  she  turned  coldly  from  the  gaze  of  admiration,  and  cared 
not  for  the  gayety  that  surrounded  her.  While  others  hurried 
to  the  ball-room,  she  lingered  over  her  book,  or  indulged  in 
meditations  unfamiliar  to  the  lovely  and  the  young.  One  even 
ing,  when  she  had  been  unusually  dilatory,  she  heard  her  father 
call,  and  taking  a  lamp,  began  to  thread  the  passage,  which 
led  through  a  long  suite  of  apartments  occupied  by  the  visiters 
of  the  spring.  As  she  passed  by  one  of  the  rooms,  the  door 
of  which  was  partially  opened,  she  heard  a  faint,  moaning 
sound,  and  paused  to  listen.  It  returned  again  and  again,  and 
*he  was  sure  some  stranger  was  suffering  there,  probably  for- 


THE    MYSTERIOUS   RETICULE.  253 

gotten  in  the  gay  crowd  that  filled  the  mansion.  Her  first 
impulse  was  to  enter,  but  she  shrunk  from  the  thought  of 
intruding  herself,  a  young  maiden,  into  the  apartment  of  a 
stranger.  "  My  father  will  go  in  and  see  who  the  sufferer  is," 
cried  she,  hastening  to  meet  him  on  the  stairs. 

Mr.  Lee  required  no  entreaties  from  his  daughter,  for  his 
kind  and  humane  feelings  were  immediately  excited  by  the 
idea  of  a  lonely  and  perhaps  dying  stranger,  in  the  midst  of  a 
heartless  crowd.  Mary  gave  the  lamp  into  her  father's  hand, 
and  stood  in  the  passage  while  he  entered.  A  sudden  excla 
mation,  echoed  by  a  faint  low  voice,  made  her  heart  palpitate 
with  vague  apprehensions.  Who  could  this  lonely  stranger 
be  whom  her  father  evidently  recognised  ?  She  stood  hold 
ing  her  breath  painfully,  fearing  to  lose  the  sound  of  that 
faint  voice  which  awakened  strange  emotions  within  her,  when 
her  father  suddenly  came  to  the  door  and  beckoned  her  to 
him.  "  I  do  believe  he  is  dying,"  said  he,  in  an  agitated  tone. 
"  It  is  Fitzroy  himself!  You  must  come  to  him,  while  I  call 
a  physician." 

Mary  almost  mechanically  obeyed  the  summons,  and  stood 
the  next  moment,  pale  and  trembling,  by  the  bedside  of  the 
man  she  had  once  loved.  Could  that,  indeed,  be  the  elegant 
Fitzroy  ? — with  disordered  hair,  half-closed  eyes,  parched  and 
trembling  lips,  which  now  vainly  endeavoured  to  articulate  a 
sound? — the  pillows  tossed  here  and  there,  as  if  in  wrestling 
with  pain ;  the  white  counterpane  twisted  and  tumbled — were 
these  the  accompaniments  of  this  fastidious  exquisite  ?  These 
thoughts  darted  through  Mary's  mind,  as  the  vision  of  her 
soiled  handkerchief  came  ghost-like  before  her.  But  she  was 
no  longer  the  weak  girl  who  wept  tears  of  bitter  agony  at  the;  dis 
covery  that  she  was  made  of  mortal  mould ;  she  was  a  woman 
awakened  to  the  best  energies  and  virtues  of  her  sex  She 
found  herself  alone  with  the  sick  man,  for  her  father  had  flown 
for  the  assistance  he  required,  and  left  her  to  watch  till  his 
return.  She  saturated  her  handkerchief  with  cologne,  and 
bathed  his  burning  temples  and  feverish  hands.  Her  hear1 
softened  over  the  invalid  in  his  prostrate  and  dependent  stxte 
"Ah,  proud  Fitzroy,"  thought  she,  "this  handkerchief  i 
now  more  soiled  and  defaced  than  the  one  which  alienated  youi 
fancy  from  me,  and  yet  you  shrink  not  from  its  contact.  No 
pride  or  scorn  now  flashes  from  those  dim  eyes,  or  curl  those 
pallid  lips.  Alas  !  he  is  very,  very  ill — I  fear  even  unto 
df-ath  "  The  tears  gathered  into  her  eyes  at  this  appalling 
117 


254  THE   MYSTERIOUS   RETICULE. 

idea,  and  even  mingled  with  the  odorous  waters  with  which  she 
embalmed  his  forehead. 

Her  father  soon  came  in  with  the  physician,  and  Mary  re- 
ligued  her  watch  by  his  bedside.  She  withdrew  to  her  own 
Apartment,  and  waited  with  intense  anxiety  the  tidings  which 
lie  promised  to  bring  her.  She  was  surprised  at  her  own  emo 
tions.  She  thought  Fitzroy  perfectly  indifferent  to  her — nay, 
more,  that  she  disliked  him;  but  now,  when  she  saw  him  in 
suffering  and  danger,  she  remembered  the  charm  with  which 
her  imagination  had  once  invested  him,  and  accused  herself 
of  harsh  and  vindictive  feelings. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Lee,  in  answer  to  her  earnest  inquiries, 
"  he  is  very  ill — dangerously  ill.  Imprudent  exposure  to  the 
burning  mid-day  sun  has  brought  on  a  sudden  and  violent 
fever,  the  consequences  of  which  are  more  to  be  dreaded,  as 
he  has  never  been  sick  before.  Could  he  have  commanded 
immediate  attention,  perhaps  the  disease  might  have  been 
arrested.  But  in  this  scene  of  gayety  and  confusion — though 
got  up  for  the  express  accommodation  of  invalids — Heaven 
save  the  sick  and  the  dying." 

"Who  will  take  care  of  him,  father?  He  has  no  mother  or 
sister  near.  Oh,  surely  we  must  not  let  him  die  for  want  of 
these  !" 

"I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of,  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Lee, 
shaking  his  head;  "but  I  cannot  consent  to  it.  The  fever 
may  be  contagious,  and  you  are  too  young  and  too  delicate  for 
such  a  task.  Besides,  there  might  be  remarks  made  upon  it. 
No ;  I  will  remain  with  him  to-night,  and  to-morrow  wo  will 
Bee  what  can  be  done  for  him." 

"  But  to-night  may  be  the  crisis  of  his  fate,"  pleaded  Mary ; 
"  to-morrow  it  may  be  too  late.  You  are  very  kind,  father, 
but  you  are  not  a  woman,  and  you  know  there  are  a  thousand 
gentle  cares  which  only  a  woman's  hand  can  tender.  I  am  a 
stranger  here ;  I  don't  care  if  they  do  censure  me.  Let  me 
act  a  true  woman's,  a  kind  sister's  part.  You  know,  by  your 
own  experience,  what  a  skilful  nurse  I  am." 

Mary  pleaded  earnestly,  and  wound  her  arms  caressingly 
around  her  father's  neck,  and  looked  up  into  his  face  with  such 
irresistible  eyes,  that  he  could  not  refuse  her.  The  pallid  face 
of  Fitzroy  seemed  to  be  leaning  beside  her  own,  clothed  with 
that  authority  which  sickness  and  approaching  death  impart. 
So  Mary  twisted  up  her  shining  ringlets,  and  took  the  rings 
from  her  jeweled  fingers,  and  donned  a  loose,  flowing  robe. 


THE   MYSTERIOUS  RETICULE.  255 

Behold  her,  one  of  the  loveliest  nurses  that  ever  brought  the 
blessings  of  Hygea  to  the  chamber  of  disease.  There  is  a 
great  deal  said  in  romances  of  the  interesting  appearance  of 
invalids,  of  a  languor  more  lovely  than  the  bloom  of  health, 
of  a  debility  more  graceful  than  the  fullness  of  strength  j  but 
this  is  all  romance.  It  has  been  said  by  one  of  the  greatest 
moralists  of  the  age,  that  the  slow  consuming  of  beauty  is  one 
of  the  greatest  judgments  of  the  Almighty  against  man  for 
sin.  Certainly  a  sick  chamber  is  not  the  place  for  romantic 
beings  to  fall  in  love,  but  it  is  the  place  where  love,  once 
awakened,  can  exert  its  holiest  influences,  and  manifest  its 
death-controlling  power;  it  is  the  place  where  religion  erects 
its  purest  altar,  and  faith  brings  its  divinest  offerings.  Yea, 
verily,  it  is  hallowed  ground.  Thus  Mary  thought  through 
the  vigils  of  that  long  night.  She  had  never  been  danger 
ously  sick  herself,  but  she  felt  the  entire  dependence  of  one 
human  being  upon  another,  and  of  all  upon  God.  She  felt, 
too,  a  kind  of  generous  triumph,  if  such  an  expression  may 
be  used,  in  the  conviction  that  this  proud  and  over-sensitive 
being  was  so  completely  abandoned  to  her  cares.  Fitzroy  lay 
in  the  deep  lethargy  of  a  burning  fever,  unconscious  whose 
soft  footsteps  fell  "  like  snow  on  snow"  around  his  bed.  "  He 
never  shall  know  it,"  said  Mary,  to  herself.  "  He  would  pro 
bably  feel  disgust,  instead  of  gratitude.  If  he  saw  this  hand 
kerchief,  all  impregnated  with  camphor,  and  stained  with 
medicine,  he  might  well  think  it  unfit  for  a  lady's  hand. 
Shame  on  me,  for  cherishing  so  much  malice  against  him — he 
so  sick  and  pale  !" 

For  more  than  a  week  Fitzroy  languished  in  that  almost 
unconscious  condition,  and  during  that  interval  Mary  conti 
nued  to  lavish  upon  him  every  attention  a  kind  and  gentle 
sister  could  bestow.  At  length  he  was  declared  out  of  dan 
ger,  and  she  gradually  withdrew  from  her  station  in  the  sick 
chamber.  Her  mission  was  fulfilled,  and  an  angelic  one  it  had 
been.  The  physician,  her  father,  and  a  youthful,  unimpaired 
constitution  accomplished  the  rest. 

"  What  do  I  not  owe  you  ?"  said  Fitzroy,  when,  liberated 
from  confinement,  he  was  slowly  walking  with  her  through 
one  of  the  green,  shady  paths  of  the  enclosure.  Now  he,  in 
deed,  looked  interesting.  The  contrast  between  his  dark  brown 
hair  and  pale  cheek  was  truly  romantic.  That  dark  hair  once 
more  exhaled  the  odours  of  sweet-scented  waters,  and  his  black 
dress  and  spotless  linen  were  as  distinguished  for  their  elegance 


256  THE   MYSTERIOUS  RETICULE. 

as  in  former  days.  "  What  do  I  not  owe  you  ?"  repeated  he, 
with  more  fervour. 

Mary  smiled.  "  You  were  sick,  and  I  ministered  unto  you. 
I  only  obeyed  a  divine  command.  A  simple  act  of  obedience 
deserves  no  reward." 

"  Then  it  was  only  from  a  sense  of  duty  that  you  watched 
ever  me  so  kindly  ?"  repeated  he,  in  a  mortified  tone.  "  You 
vould  have  done  the  same  for  any  stranger  ?" 

"  Most  certainly  I  would,"  replied  Mary;  "for  any  stranger 
as  helpless  and  neglected  as  you  appeared  to  be." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  he,  evidently  disconcerted,  "  but  I  thought 
— I  dared  to  think — that " 

Mary  laughed,  and  her  rosy  lip  began  to  curl  with  a  slight 
expression  of  scorn.  She  was  a  woman,  and  her  feelings  had 
once  been  chafed,  humiliated  through  him,  if  not  by  him. 
Her  eyes  sparkled,  not  vindictively,  but  triumphantly.  "  You 
dared  to  think  that  I  was  in  love  with  you  !  Oh,  no ;  that  is 
all  passed — long,  long  ago." 

"  Passed  ?    Then  you  acknowledge  that  you  have  loved  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replid  she,  in  the  same  laughing  tone,  though  she 
blushed  deeply  all  the  while ;  "  I  did  love  you,  Fitzroy,  and 
I  could  have  loved  you  with  a  life-long  passion.  To  win  your 
affection  I  tried  to  pass  myself  off  as  an  angel,  to  whose  gar 
ments  the  dust  of  mortality  never  adhered.  You  discovered 
my  folly,  and  turned  from  me  in  contempt.  It  was  a  bitter 
lesson  at  first,  but  I  thank  you  for  it  now.  I  am  not  the  fool 
ish  girl  that  I  was  when  I  first  knew  you,  Fitzroy.  You  must 
not  think  that  I  am " 

"And  Jam  not  the  fool  I  was  then,"  interrupted  he.  "I 
know  now  what  constitutes  the  perfection  of  a  woman's  charac 
ter.  You  only  captivated  my  fancy  then,  now  you  have  won 
my  whole  heart." 

"  Better  lost  than  won,"  cried  Mary,  in  the  same  careless 
accents.  "  I  could  not  keep  the  treasure,  and  I  cannot  take 
it.  You  think  you  love  me  now,  but  I  might  fall  sick,  you 
know,  and  people  do  not  look  so  pretty  when  they  are  sick, 
and  you  might  not  like  the  scent  of  camphor  and  medicine, 
and  then  one's  handkerchiefs  get  so  terribly  soiled !" 

She  stopped,  and  looked  archly  at  Fitzroy's  clouded  coun 
tenance. 

"  I  understand  it  all,"  cried  he,  bitterly ;  "  you  pitied  me  in 
sickness,  and  watched  over  me.  But  I  must  have  looked 


THE   MYSTERIOUS   RETICULE.  257 

shockingly  ugly  and  slovenly,  and  you  became  disgusted.  I 
cannot  blame  you,  for  I  deserve  such  a  punishment." 

"  No,  no — not  ugly,  Fitzroy,  but  helpless,  weak,  and  de 
pendent,  proud  man  that  you  are.  But,  oh !  you  ought  to 
know  that  this  very  helplessness  and  dependence  endear  the 
sufferer  ten  thousand  times  more  to  a  fond  woman's  heart  than 
all  the  pride  of  beauty  and  the  bloom  of  health.  I  have  had 
ny  revenge;  but  believe  me,  Fitzroy,  the  hours  passed  in 
our  chamber  of  sickness  will  be  remembered  as  the  happiest 
of  my  life." 

The  tone  of  playful  mockery  which  she  had  assumed,  sub 
sided  into  one  of  deep  feeling,  and  tears  gathered  in  her  down 
cast  eyes.  Fitzroy — but  it  is  no  matter  what  Fitzroy  said — 
certainly  something  that  pleased  Mary,  for  when  they  return 
ed,  more  than  an  hour  afterwards,  her  cheeks  were  glowing 
with  the  roses  of  Eden. 

It  was  about  six  months  after  this  that  Cousin  Kate  visited 
Mary — but  not  Mary  Lee — once  more.  Fitzroy,  who  now 
often  complained  of  a  headache,  was  leaning  back  in  an  easy 
chair,  and  Mary  was  bathing  his  temples,  which  she  occasion 
ally  pressed  with  her  linen  handkerchief. 

"  Oh,  shocking  I"  exclaimed  Kate ;  "  how  can  you  bear  to 
see  Mary  touch  anything  so  rumpled  and  used,  about  your 
elegant  person  ?" 

"The  hand  of  affection,"  replied  Fitzroy,  pressing  Marys 
gently  on  his  brow,  "  can  shed  a  beautifying  influence  over 
every  object.  Mary  is  a  true  alchemist,  and  has  separated  the 
gold  of  my  heart  from  the  worthless  dross  that  obscured  its 
lustre.  She  put  me  in  the  crucible,  and  I  have  been  purifhd 
by  the  fires  through  which  I  passed." 


THE  END 

* 


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The  Rich  Husband.     By  author  of  "  George  Geith." 1  75 

Harem  Life  in  Egypt  and  Constantinople.      By  Emmeliue  Lott, 1  75 

The  Rector's  Wife;  or,  the  Valley  of  n  Hundred  Fires, 1  75 

Woodburn  Grange.     A  Novel.     By  William  Howitt 1  75 

Country  Quarters.     By  the  Countess  of  Blessington, 1  75 

Out  of  the  Depths.     The  Story  of  a  "Woman's  Life," 1   75 

The  Coquette;  or,  the  Life  and  Letters  of  Eliza  Wharton. 1  75 

The  Pride  of  Life.     A  Story  of  the  Heart.     By  Lady  Jane  Scott,....  1  75 

The  Lost  Beauty.     By  a  Noted  Lady  of  the  Spa.nish  Court, 1  75 

Above  books  are  each  in  cloth,  or  each  one  is  in  paper  cover,  at  $1.50  each. 

g^  Above  Books  will  be  sent.-post? ga  paid,  on  Receipt  of  Retail  Price, 
by  T.  B.   Peterson  &  Broliiers,  liiiladelphia,  Pa. 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.  5 
WORKS  BY  THE  VERY  BEST  AUTHORS. 

The  following  books  are   each   issued   in    one   larye  duodecimo  volume, 
bound  in  cloth,  at  $1.75  each,  or  each  one  is  in  paper  cover  at  $1.50  each. 
My  Hero.     By  Mrs.  Forrester.     A  Charming  Love  Story,  ..............  $1  75 

Tlie  Count  of  Monte-CrLsto.     By  Alexander  Duma?.     Illustrated,  ...  1  75 
The  Countess  of  Monte-Cristo.     Paper  cover,  price  $1.00  ;  or  cloth,..  1  75 
Camille;  or,  tho  Fate  of  a  Coquette.     By  Alexander  Dumus,  .........  1  75 

The  Quaker  Soldier.  A  Revolutionary  Romance.  By  Judge  Jones,....  1  75 

The  Man  of  the  World.     An  Autobiography.     By  William  North,...  1  75 
The  Queen's  Favorite;  or,  The  Price  of  a  Crown.     A  Love  Story,...  1  75 
Self  Love;  or,  The  Afternoon  of  Single  and  Married  Life,  ............   1  75 

The  Dead  Secret.    By  Wilkie  Collins,  author  "  The  Crossed  Putli,"...   1   75 
Memoirs  of  Vidocq,  the  French  Detective.    His  Life  and  Adventure.",  1  75 
The  Clyffards  of  Clyffe,  by  author  of  "Lost  Sir  Massingberd,"  ......  1  75 

Camors.     "The  Man  of  the  Second  Empire."     63'  Octiive  Feuillet,..   1  75 
Life,  Speeches  and  Martyrdom  of  Abraham  Lincoln.     Illustrated,...  1   75 
The  Crossed  Path  ;  or  Basil.     By  Wilkio  Collins-,  ..........................   1  75 

Indiana.     A  Love  Story.     By  George  Sand,  author  of  "  dmsuelo,"  1  75 
The  Belle  of  Washington.  With  her  Portrait.  By  Mrs.  N.  P.  Lasscllc,  1  75 
Cora  Belmont;  or,  The  Sincere  Lover.     A  True  Story  of  the  Heart,.  1  75 
The  Lover's  Trinl^;  or  Days  before  1776.  By  Mr.-  .  Mary  A.  Dtnisor.,  1  75 
High  Life  in  Washington.    A  Life  Picture.    By  Mrs.  N.  P.  Lsusclle,  1  75 
Tiie  Beautiful  Widow;  or,  Lodore.     By  Mrs.  Percy  B.  Shelley,  ......  1   75 

Love  and  Mo;iey.     By  J.  B.  Jones,  author  of  the  ''Rival  Belle.--,"...  1  75 
Tho  Matchmaker.    A  Story  of  High   Lire.    By  Beatrice  Reynolds,..  1  75 
The  Brother's  Secret  ;  or,  the  Count  Do  Mara.     By  William  Godwin,  1  75 
The  Lost  Love.     By  Mrs.  Oliphaot.  author  of  "  Margaret,  M.-iitland,"   1    75 
The  Roman  Traitor.     By  Henry  William  Herbert.    A  Roman  Story,  1  75 
The  Bohemians  of  London.     By  Edward  M.  AVhitty,  ....................   1  75 

The  Rival  Belles;  or,  Life  in  Washington.     By  J.  B.  Jones,  ..........   1  75 

The  Devoted  Bride.     A  Story  of  the  Heart.     By  St.  George  Tucker,  1  75 
Love  and  Duty.    By  Mrs.  Hubback,  author  of  "  May  and  December,"  1  75 
Wild  Sports  and   A.  [ventures  in   Africa.     By   Mujur  W.  C.  Harris,  1  75 
Courtship  and  Matrimony.     By  Robert  Morris.     With  a  Portrait,...  1  75 
The  Jealous  Husband.     By  Annette  Mario  Maillard,  .....................  1  75 

The  Refugee.      By  Herman  Melville,  uuthor  of  "  Omoo,"  •'  Typee,"  1  75 
The  Life,  Writings,  and  Lectures  of  tho  late  "Fanny  Fern,"  .........  1  75 

The  Life  and  Lectures  of  Lola  Montez,  with  her  portrait,  ...............  1   75 

Wild  Southern  Scone*.     By  author  of  "  Wild  Western  Scenes,"  ......  1  75 

Currer  Lyle  ;  or,  the  Autobiography  of  nn  Actress.  By  Louise  Reeder.  1  75 
Coal,  Coal  Oil,  and  all  other  Minerals  in  thu  Earth.     By  Eli  Bowen,  1  75 
The  Cabin  and  Parlor.     By  J.  Thornton  Randolph.     Illustrated,  .....   1   75 

Jealousy  ;  or,  Teverino.   By  George  Sand,  ivuthor  of  "  Consuelo,"  etc.  1  75 
The  Little  Beauty.     A  Love  Story.     By  Mrs.  Grey  ........................   1  75 

Secession,  Coercion,  and  Civil  War.     By  J.  B.  Jom-s,  ...................    1   75 

Six  Nights  with  the  Washingtouians.     By  T.  S.  Arthur  .................   1  75 

Lizzie  Glenn;  or,  tho  Trials  of  a  Seamstn^s.     By  T.  S.  A.tl.ur  ......  1  75 

Lady  Maud  ;  or,  the  Wonder  of  Kingswoo  1  Chase.    By  Pierce  Egan,  1  75 
Wilfred  Montressor  ;   or,  High  Life  in  New  York.     Iliustratfd  ........  1  75 

The  Old  Stone  Mansion.  By  C.  J.  Peterson,  author  "Kate  Avlesford,"  1  fib 
Kate  Aylesford.  By  Chns.  J.  Peterson,  author  "  Old  Stone  Mansion,".  1  75 
Lorriraor  Littlegood,  by  author  "  Harry  Coverdale's  Courtship/'  .....   1  75 

The  Earl's  Secret.     A  Love  Story.     By  Miss  Pardoe  ....................  1   75 

The  Adopted  Heir.  By  Miss  Piirdoe.  author  of  "  Tho  Earl's  Secret,"  1  75 

Above  books  are  each  in  cloth,  or  each  one  is  in  paper  cover,  at  §1.60  each. 


Above  TJooks  will  ba  sent,  po3ta^  jmd,  on  receipt  of  KeUil  Price, 
by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  BrotLore,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


6    T.  B.  PETERSOH  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 
WORKS  BY  THE  VERY  BEST  AUTHORS. 

The  following  books  are  each  issued  in  one  large  duodecimo  volume, 
bound  iti  cloth,  at  $1.75  each,  or  each  one  is  in  paper  cover,  at  $1.50  each. 
Cousin  Harry.  By  Mrs.  Grey,  author  of  "  The  Gambler's  Wife,"  etc.$l  75 

The  Conscript,  A  Tale  of  War.  By  Alexander  Dumas,  1  75 

Saratoga.  An  Indian  Tale  of  Frontier  Life.  A  true  Story  of  1787,..  1  75 

Married  at  Last.  A  Love  Story.  By  Annie  Thomas, 1  75 

The  Tower  of  London.  By  W.  Harrison  Ainsworth.  Illustrated,...  1  75 
Shoulder  Straps.  By  Henry  Morford,  author  of  "  Days  of  Shoddy,"  1  75 
Days  of  Shoddy.  By  Henry  Morford,  author  of  "  Shoulder  Straps,"  1  75 

The  Coward.  By  Henry  Morford,  author  of  "  Shoulder  Straps," 1  75 

The  Cavalier.  By  G.  P.  R.James,  author  of  "Lord  Montagu's  Page,"  1  75 

Hose  Foster.  By  George  W.  M.  Reynolds,  Esq., 1  75 

Lord  Montagu's  Page.  By  G.  P.  R.  James,  author  of  "Cavalier,"...  1  75 
Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephens'  Celebrated  Novels.  Eighteen  volumes  in  all,  31  50 
Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth's  Popular  Novels.  35  vols.  in  all,  61  25 

Mrs.  Caroline  Lee  Hentz's  Novels.  Twelve  volumes  in  all, 21  00 

Frederika  Bremer's  Novels.  Six  volumes  in  all, 10  50 

T.  A.  Trollope's  Works.  Seven  volumes  in  all, 12  25 

James  A.  Maitland's  Novels.  Seven  volumes  in  all, 12  25 

Q.  K.  Philander  Doestick's  Novels.  Four  volumes  in  all, , 7  00 

Cook  Books.  The  best  in  the  world.  Ten  volumes  in  all, 17  50 

Henry  Morford's  Novels.  Throe  volumes  in  all, 5  25 

Mrs.  Henry  Wood's  Novels.  Sixteen  volumes  in  all, 28  00 

Emerson  Bennett's  Novels.  Seven  volumes  in  all, 12  25 

Green's  Works  on  Gambling.  Four  volumes  in  all, 7  00 

Miss  Eliza  A.  Dupuy's  Wo-rks.  Six  volumes  in  all, 10  50 

Above  books  are  each  in  cloth,  or  each  one  is  in  paper  cover,  at  $1.50  each. 

TJie  following  books  are  each   issued   in  one  large  octavo  volume,  bound  in 
cloth,  at  $2.00  each,  or  each  one  is  done  up  in  paper  cover,  at  $1.50  each. 

The  Wandering  Jew.     By  Eugene  Sue.     Full  of  Illustrations, $2  00 

Mysteries  of  Paris ;  and  its  Sequel,  Gerolstein.     By  Eugene  Sue,....  2  00 

Martin,  the  Foundling.     By  Eugene  Sue.     Full  of  Illustrations, 2  00 

Ten  Thousand  a  Year.     By  Samuel  Warren.     With  Illustrations,....  2  00 

Washington  and  His  Generals.     By  George  Lippard... 2  00 

The  Quaker  City;  or,  the  Monks  of  Monk  Hall.     By  George  Lippard,  2  00 

Blanche  of  Brandywino.     By  George  Lippard, 2  00 

Paul  Ardenheim;  the  Monk  of  Wissahickon.     By  George  Lippard,.  2  00 
Above  books  are  each  in  cloth,  or  each  one  is  in  paper  cover,  at  $1.50  each. 

T/te  following  are  each  issued  in  one  large  octavo  volume,  bound  in  cloth,  price  $2.00 
each,  or  a  cheap  edition  is  issued  in  paper  cover,  at  75  cents  each. 

Charles  O'Malley,  the  Irish  Dragoon.    By  Charles  Lever, Cloth,  $2  00 

Harry  Lorrequer.    With  his  Confessions.    By  Charles  Lever,. ..Cloth,    2  00 

Jack  Hinton,  the  Guardsman.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth,    2  00 

Davenport  Dunn.     A  Man  of  Our  Day.     By  Charles  Lever,. ..Cloth,    2  00 

Tom  Burke  of  Ours.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth,    2  00 

The  Knight  of  Gwynne.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth,    2  00 

Arthur  O'Leary.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth,    2  00 

Con  Cregan.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth,    2  00 

Horace  Templeton.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth,    2  00 

Kate  O'Donoghue.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth,    2  00 

Valentine  Vox,  the  Ventriloquist.     By  Harry  Cockton, Cloth,    2  00 

Above  are  each  in  cloth,  or  each  one  is  in  paper  cover,  at  75  cents  each. 

1^*  Above  Books  will  be  sent,  pastage  paid,  on  Eeceipt  of  Retail  Price, 
by  T.  B,  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Fa. 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.  7 
NEW  AND  GOOD  BOOKS  BY  BEST  AUTHORS. 

Beautiful  Snow,  and  Other  Poems.  New  Illustrated  Edition.  By  J. 
W.  Watson,  author  of  "  The  Outcast  and  Other  Poems."  With 
Original  Illustrations  by  Edward  L.  Henry.  One  volume,  green 
morocco  cloth,  gilt  top,  side,  and  back,  price  $2.00;  or  in  maroon 
morocco  cloth,  full  gilt  edges,  full  gilt  back,  full  gilt  sides,  etc., $3  00 

The  Outcast,  and  Other  Poems.  By  J.  W.  Watson,  author  of 
'*  Beautiful  Snow  and  Other  Poems."  One  volume,  green  morocco 
cloth,  gilt  top,  side  and  back,  price  $2.00 ;  or  in  maroon  morocco 
cloth,  full  gilt  edges,  full  gilt  back,  full  gilt  sides,  etc., 3  00 

Hans  Breitmann's  Ballads.  By  Charles  G.  Leland.  Volume  One.  Con 
taining  "  Hans  Breitmann's  Party,  with  Other  Ballads,"  "  Hans 
Breitmann  About  Town,  and  Other  Ballads,"  and  "  Hans  Breitmann 
In  Church,  and  Other  New  Ballads,"  being  the  "  First,"  "Second," 
and  "  Third  Series"  of  the  "Breitmann  Ballads,"  bound  in  morocco 
cloth,  gilt,  beveled  boards, 3  00 

Hans  Breitmann's  Ballads.  By  Charles  G.  Leland.  Volume  Two. 
Containing  "  Hans  Breitmann  as  an  Uhlan,  with  other  New  Bal 
lads,"  and  "  Hans  Breitmann's  Travels  in  Europe,  with  Other  New 
Ballads,"  being  the  "Fourth"  and  "  Fifth  Series"  of  the  "Breitmann 
Ballads,"  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  gilt,  beveled  boards, 2  00 

Hans  Breitmann's  Ballads.  By  Charles  G.  Leland.  Being  the  above 
two  volumes  complete  in  one.  Containing  all  the  Ballads  written 
by  "  Hans  Breitmann."  Complete  in  one  large  volume,  bound  in 
morocco  cloth,  gilt  side,  gilt  top,  and  full  gilt  back,  with  beveled 
boards.  With  a  full  and  complete  Glossary  to  the  whole  work, 4  00 

Meister  Karl's  Sketch  Book.  By  Charles  G.  Leland,  (Hans  Breit 
mann.)  Complete  in  one  volume,  green  morocco  cloth,  gilt  side, 
gilt  top,  gilt  back,  with  beveled  boards,  price  $2.50,  or  in  maroon 
morocco  cloth,  full  gilt  edges,  full  gilt  back,  full  gilt  sides,  etc., 3  50 

John  Jasper's  Secret.     A  Sequel  to  Charles  Dickens'  "Mystery  of 

Edwin  Drood."     With  18  Illustrations.     Bound  in  cloth, 2  00 

The  Last  Athenian.  From  the  Swedish  of  Victor  Rydberg.  Highly 
recommended  by  Fredrika  Bremer.  Paper  $1.50,  or  in  cloth, 2  00 

Across  the  Atlantic.  Letters  from  France,  Switzerland,  Germany, 
Italy,  and  England.  By  C.  H.  Haeseler,  M.D.  Bound  in  cloth,...  2  00 

The  Ladies'  Guide  to  True  Politeness  and  Perfect  Manners.  By 
Miss  Leslie.  Every  lady  should  have  it.  Cloth,  full  gilt  back,...  1  75 

The  Ladies'  Complete  Guide  to  Needlework  and  Embroidery.  With 
113  illustrations.  By  Miss  Lambert.  Cloth,  full  gilt  back, 1  75 

The  Ladies'  Work  Table  Book.     With  27  illustrations.     Cloth,  gilt,.  1  50 

The  Story  of  Elizabeth.  By  Miss  Thackeray,  paper  $1.00,  or  cloth,...  1  60 

Dow's  Short  Patent  Sermons.  By  Dow,  Jr.  In  4  vols.,  cloth,  each....  1  50 

Wild  Oats  Sown  Abroad.    A  Spicy  Book.   By  T.  B.  Witmer,  cloth,...  1  50 

Aunt  Patty's  Scrap  Bag.  By  Mrs.  Caroline  Lee  Hentz,  author  of 
"  Linda,"  etc.  Full  of  Illustrations,  and  bound  in  cloth, 1  50 

Hollick's  Anatomy  and  Physiology  of  the  Human  Figure.  Illustrated 
by  a  perfect  dissected  plate  of  the  Human  Organization,  and  by 
other  separate  plates  of  the  Human  Skeleton,  such  as  Arteries, 
Veins,  the  Heart,  Lungs,  Trachea,  etc.  Illustrated.  Bound, 2  0 

Life  and  Adventures  of  Don  Quixote  and  his  Squire  Sancho  Panza, 
complete  in  one  large  volume,  paper  cover,  for  $1.00,  or  in  cloth,..  1  75 

The  Laws  and  Practice  of  the  Game  of  Euchre.  By  a  Professor. 
This  is  the  book  of  the  "  Laws  of  Euchre,"  adopted  and  got  up  by 
the  Euchre  Club  of  Washington,  D.  C.  Bound  in  cloth, 1 


Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Eetail  Price, 
by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa, 


8  T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 
NEW  AND  GOOD  BOOKS  BY  BEST  AUTHORS. 

Treason  at  Home.     A  Novel.     By  Mrs.  Greenough,  cloth, $1  75 

Letters  from  Europe.  By  Colonel  John  W.  Forney.  Bound  in  cloth,  1  75 
Moore's  Life  of  Hon.  Schuyler  Colfax,  with  a  Portrait  on  steel,  cloth,  1  50 

Whitefriars;  or,  The  Days  of  Charles  the  Second.     Illustrated, 1  00 

Tan-go-ru-a.     An  Historical  Drama,  in  Prose.  By  Mr.  Moorhead, —  1  00 

The  Impeachment  Trial  of  President  Andrew  Johnson.     Cloth, 1  50 

Trial  of  the  Assassins  for  the  Murder  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  Cloth,...  1  50 
Lives  of  Jack  Sheppard  and  Guy  Fawkes.  Illustrated.  One  vol.,  cloth,  1  75 

Consuelo,  and  Countess  of  Rudolstadt.    One  volume,  cloth 2  00 

Monsieur  Antoine.     By  George  Sand.     Illustrated.     One  vol.,  cloth,  1  00 

Frank  Fairleigh.     By  author  of  "  Lewis  Arundel,"  cloth, 1  75 

Lewis  Arundel.     By  author  of  "  Frank  Fairleigh,"  cloth, 1  75 

Aurora  Floyd.  By  Miss  Braddon.  One  vol.,  paper  75  cents,  cloth,...  1  00 
Christy  and  White's  Complete  Ethiopian  Melodies,  bound  in  cloth,...  1  00 

The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     By  R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  cloth,  2  00 

Poetical  Works  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.     One  8vo.  volume,  fine  binding,  5  00 

Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.     By  John  G.  Lockhart.     With  Portrait, 2  50 

The  Shakspeare  Novels.  Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume,  cloth,  4  00 
Miss  Pardoe's  Choice  Novels.  In  one  large  octavo  volume,  cloth,...  4  00 
The  Waverley  Novels.  National  Edition.  Five  large  8vo.  vols.,  cloth,  15  00 
Charles  Dickens'  Works.  People's  12mo.  Edition.  21  vols.,  cloth,  32  00 
Charles  Dickens' Works.  Green  Cloth  I2mo.  Edition.  21  vols.,  cloth,  40  00 
Charles  Dickens'  Works.  Illustrated  I2mo.  Edition.  34  vols.,  cloth,  50  00 
Charles  Dickens'  Works.  Illustrated  8vo.  Edition.  18  vols.,  cloth,  31  50 
Charles  Dickens' Works.  New  National  Edition.  7  volumes,  cloth,  20  00 

HUMOROUS  ILLUSTRATED  WORKS. 

Each  one  is  full  of  Illustrations,  by  Felix  0.  C.  Darley,  and  bound  in  Cloth. 

Major  Jones'  Courtship  and  Travels.     With  21  Illustrations, $1  75 

Major  Jones' Scenes  in  Georgia.     With  16  Illustrations, 1  75 

Simon  Suggs'  Adventures  and  Travels.     With  17  Illustrations, 1  75 

Swamp  Doctor's  Adventures  in  the  South-West.    14  Illustrations,...  1  75 

Col.  Thorpe's  Scenes  in  Arkansaw.     With  16  Illustrations, 1  75 

The  Big  Bear's  Adventures  and  Travels.   With  18  Illustrations, 1  75 

High  Life  in  New  York,  by  Jonathan   Slick.     With  Illustrations,....  1  75 

Judge  Haliburton's  Yankee  Stories.     Illustrated, 1  75 

Harry  Coverdale's  Courtship  and  Marriage.     Illustrated, 1  75 

Piney  Wood's  Tavern;  or,  Sam  Slick  in  Texas.     Illustrated, 1  75 

Sam  Slick,  the  Clockmaker.     By  Judge  Haliburton.     Illustrated,...  1  75 

Humors  of  Falconbridge.     By  J.  F.  Kelley.     With  Illustrations, ...  1  75 

Modern  Chivalry.     By  Judge  Breckenridge.     Two  vols.,  each 1  75 

Neal's  Charcoal  Sketches.     By  Joseph  C.  Neal.     21  Illustrations,...  2  50 

CHARLES  LEVER'S  BEST  WORKS. 


Charles  O'Malley, 75 

Harry  Lorrequer, 75 

Jack  Hinton, 75 

Tom  Burke  of  Ours, 75 

Knight  of  Gwynne, 75 


Arthur  O'Leary, 75 

Con  Cregan 75 

Davenport  Dunn, 75 

Horace  Templeton, 75 

Kate  O'Donoghue, 75 


Above  are  in  paper  cover,  or  a  fine  edition  in  cloth  at  $2.00  each. 

A  Rent  in  a  Cloud, 50  |  St.  Patrick's  Eve 50 

Ten  Thousand  a  Year,  in  one  volume,  paper  cover,  $1.50;  or  in  cloth,  2  00 
The  Diary  of  a  Medical  Student,  by  author  "  Ten  Thousand  a  Year,"       75 


jj@»  Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Retail  Price, 
by  T.  £.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


T.  B.  PSTE3SO!!  &  PEOTHESS'  PTTSLICATIONS.     9 
DUMAS',  EEYHOLBS',  AITD  OTHER  BOOZS IJT  CLOTIf. 

The  following   are  cJotTi  editions  <:f  the  following  good  bonk*,  and  Ificy  are 

each,  iitoued  in  one  large  volume,  bound  in  cloth,  pi-ice  $1.75eacA. 

The  Three  Guardsmen  ;  or.  The  Three  Mousquetaires.    By  A.  Dumas,$l  75 

Twenty  Years  After;  or  the  '•  Second  Series  of  Three  Guardsmen,"...  1  75 

Bra<;elouiie;   S.m  of  Athos  ;  or  "  Third  Series  of  Three  Guardsmen,"  1  75 

The  Iron  Mask;  or  the  "  Fourth  Series  of  The  Three  Guardsmen."....  1  75 
Louise   La   Valliere;    or   the   "Fifth  Series  and   End  of  the  Three 

Guardsmen  Series," 1  7 


Andree  De  Taverney ;  or  "  Fifth  Series  of  Memoirs  of  a  Physician,"  1  75 
The  Chevalier;  or  tho  "  Sixth  Series  and  End  of  the  Memoirs  of  a 

Physician  Series," , 1  75 

The  Adventures  of  a  Marquis.     By  Alexander  Dumas 1  75 

Edniond  Dantes.     A  Sequel  to  the  "  Count  <>»'  Monte-Cristo," 1  75 

The  Forty-Five  Guardsmen.  By  Alexander  Duiuas.  Illustrated,...  1  75 
Diana  of  Meridor,  or  Lady  of  Monsoreau.  Ey  Alexander  Dumas,...  1  75 
The  Iron  Hand.  By  Alex.  Dumas,  author  "Count  of  Monte-Cristo,"  1  75 
TheMy.-teries  of  the  Court  of  London.  By  George  W.  M.  Reynolds,  1  75 
Hose  Foster;  or  the  "Second  Series  of  Mi/ uteri  es  of  Court  of  London,"  1  75 
Caroline  of  Brunswick ;  or  the  "  Third  Series  of  the  Court  of  London,"  175 
Venetia  Trelawney;  or  "End  of  the  Mysteries  of  the  Court  of  London,"  1  75 

Lord  Saxondale;  or  the  Court  of  Queen  Victoria.    By  Reynolds, 1  75 

Count  Christoral.    Sequel  to  "  Lord  Saxondale."     By  Reynolds, 1  75 

Rosa  Lambert;  or  Memoirs  of  an  Unfortunate  Woman.  By  Reynolds,  1  75 
Mary  Price;  or  the  Adventures  of  a  Servant  Maid.  By  Reynolds,...  1  75 
Eustace  Quentin.  Sequel  to  "  Mary  Price."  By  G.  W.  M.  Reynolds,  1  75 
Joseph  AViltnot;  or  the  Memoirs  of  a  Man  Servant.  By  Reynolds,...  1  75 

Banker's  Daughter.  Sequel  to  "Joseph  Wilrnot."   By  Reynolds, 1  75 

Kenneth.      A  Romance  of  the  Highlands.      By  G.  W.  M.  Reynolds,  1  75 

Rye-House  Plot;   or  the  Conspirator's  Daughter.   By  Reynolds, 1  75 

Necromancer;  or  the  Times  of  Henry  the  Eighth.    By  Reynolds, 1  75 

"Within  the  Maze.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "  East  Lynne,".  1  75 
Dene  Hollow.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "  Within  the  Miize,"  1  75 
Bessy  Rane.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "  The  Channings,"....  1  75 
George  Canterbury's  Will.  By  Mrs.  Wood,  author  "Oswald  Cray,"  1  75 
The  Chunnings.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "  Dene  Hollow,"...  1  75 

Roland  Yorke.     A  Sequel  to  "  The  Channings."    By  Mrs.  Wood, 1  75 

Shadow  of  Ashlydyatt.    By  Mrs.  Wood,  author  of  "  Bessy  Rane," ]   75 

Lord  Oakburn's  Daughters;  or  The  Earl's  Heirs.  By  Mrs.  Wood,...  1  75 
Yerner's  Pride.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "The  Channings,"  1  75 
The  Castle's  Heir;  or  Lady  Adelaide's  Oath.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  1  75 
Oswald  Cray.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "Roland  Yorke,"....  1  75 

Squire  Trevlyn's  Heir;  or  Trevlyn  Hold.     By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood 1  75 

The  Red  Court  Farm.  By  Mrs.  Wood,  author  of  "  Verner's  Pride,"...  1  75 
EL-ter's  Folly.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  auihor  of  "  Castle's  Heir,"...  1  75 
St.  Martin's  Eve.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "Dene  Hollow,"  1  75 
Mildred  Arkell.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "En.-t  Lynne,"....  1  75 
Cyrilla;  or  the  Mysterious  Engagement.  By  author  of  "Initials,"  1  75 

The  Miser's  Daughter.      By  William  Harrison  Ainsworth 1  75 

Tho  Mysteries  of  Florence.  By  Geo.  Lippard,  author  •'  Quaker  City,"  1  76 

Igg0  Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Eetail  Price, 
by  T.  3.  Peterson  Si  LroUierfi,  Piiilau&lpiiia,  Pa. 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 

4*- GREAT    REDUCTION    IN    THEIR    PRICES. -^ft 


PEOPLE'S  DUODECIMO  EDITION.    ILLUSTRATED. 

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Great  Expectations, Cloth,  1.50 

David  Copperfield, Cloth,  1.50 

Oliver  Twist, Cloth,  1.50 

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A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,. ..Cloth,  1.50 


Little  Dorrit, Cloth,  $1.50 

Dombey  and  Son, Cloth,  1.50 

Christmas  Stories, Cloth,  1.50 

Sketches  by  "  Boz," Cloth,  1.50 

Barnaby  Rudge, Cloth,  1.50 

Martin  Chuzzlewit, Cloth,  1.50 

Old  Curiosity  Shop, Cloth,  1.50 

Dickens'  New  Stories,..Cloth,  1.50 


Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood;  and  Master  Humphrey's  Clock, Cloth,     1.50 

American  Notes;  and  the  Uncommercial  Traveller, Cloth,     1.50 

Hunted  Down;  and  other  Reprinted  Pieces, Cloth,     1.50 

The  Holly- Tree  Inn;  and  other  Stories, Cloth,     1.50 

The  Life  and  Writings  of  Charles  Dickens, Cloth,     2.00 

Price  of  a  set,  in  Black  cloth,  in  twenty-one  volumes, $32.00 

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Medallion  Portrait  on  sides  in  gilt,  in  Twenty-one  handy  volumes,  12mo.f 
fine  paper,  large  clear  type,  and  Two  Hundred  Illustrations  on  tinted  paper. 
Price  $40  a  set,  and  each  set  put  up  in  a  neat  and  strong  box.  This  is 
the  handsomest  and  best  edition  ever  published  for  the  price. 

ILLUSTRATED  DUODECIMO  EDITION. 

Reduced   in  price  from  $2.00  to   $1.50  a  volume. 

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tinted  paper,  from  designs  by  Cruikshanlc,  Phiz,  Browne,  Maclise, 
McLenan,  and  other  artists.  This  is  the  only  edition  published  that  con 
tains  all  the  original  illustrations,  09  selected  by  Mr.  Charles  Dickens. 
The  following  are  each  contained  in  two  volumes. 


Our  Mutual  Friend, Cloth,  $3.00 

Pickwick  Papers, Cloth,  3.00 

Tale  of  Two  Cities, Cloth,  3.00 

Nicholas  Nickleby, Cloth,  3.00 

David  Copperfield, Cloth,  3.00 

Oliver  Twist, Cloth,  3.00 

Christmas  Stories, Cloth,  3.00 


Bleak  House, Cloth,  $3.00 

Sketches  by  "Boz," Cloth,  3.00 

Barnaby  Rudge, Cloth,  3.00 

Martin  Chuzzlewit, Cloth,  3.00 

Old  Curiosity  Shop, Cloth,  3.00 

Little  Dorrit, Cloth,  3.00 

Dombey  and  Son, Cloth,  3.00 


The  following  are  each  complete  in  one  volume. 

Oreat  Expectations, $1.50  |  Dickens'  New  Stories,. ..Cloth,  $1.50 

Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood;  and  Master  Humphrey's  Clock,. ...Cloth,     1.50 

American  Notes;  and  the  Uncommercial  Traveller, Cloth,     1.50 

Hunted  Down:  and  other  Reprinted  Pieces, Cloth,     1.50 

The  Holly-Tree  Inn;  and  other  Stories, Cloth,     1.50 

The  Life  and  Writings  of  Charles  Dickens, Cloth,     2.00 

Price  of  a  set,  in  thirty-five  volumes,  bound  in  cloth, $50.00 

"  "         Full  sheep,  Library  style, 68.00 

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JllO) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


NOV  9    1972 


REC*0  ID 

SEP 

AUG25 


JRt 

07 
977 


Form  L9-32m-8,'57(,C8680s4)444 


love  after  marriag< 


3   1158  00191    1592 


PS 

1919 
Hh  l 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

A  A      000035022    3 


BaiSBiaH 


mmm 


